


Haunted House

by WandererRiha



Series: Haunted House [1]
Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: 1997, AU, Aeris not Aerith, Buddyfic, F/M, Gast you idiot, Gen, Lu is not sorry, Other, Rare Pair, Sorry Not Sorry, actually it's Jenova's fault, age-appropriate romance, brain vomit, chocobo head, define 'normal', fandom grandma, fangeezer, good boy Gallian, how am I the most functional person here?, iBoob, it's Hojo's fault, it's not Nibelheim till Sephiroth starts a fire, not a ship so much as a canoe, old pal in the army, sparklepires anonymous, teenaged boys, this is REALLY not science, this is not science, zack is a puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 61
Words: 247,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little fun with AU's.<br/>What if Sephiroth had found Vincent on that first trip to Nibelheim?</p><p>General Sephiroth, SOLDIER 1st Class Zack, and a new recruit named Cloud visit a remote mountain community. A local legend prompts a ghost hunt with spectres that are anything but imaginary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Local Legend

**Author's Note:**

> I've done my best to hit the most important parts of the FF7 storyline. While there are elements of the subsequent games (Dirge, Crisis Core), I wasn't really worried about the details that they added. This is for the fangeezers like me, who remember when playing a Final Fantasy game meant ordering one DIRECTLY FROM JAPAN.
> 
> Also, a little bonus content for those interested.  
> Warning, here there be spoilers:  
> \- [TV Tropes page](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/FanFic/HauntedHouse) for "Haunted House"  
> \- [Personal Wiki](http://moreofacanoe.wikia.com/wiki/MoreOfACanoe_Wikia) for keeping my notes straight while I wrote this thing.

Ordinarily, Zack had no trouble going to sleep. As a child he’d been able to sleep anywhere, any time, and he’d carried the ability with him into adulthood. It was a useful skill to have in the military; being able to drop off as soon as the company was called to halt, and the even more important, able to snap from dead asleep to full awareness at a moment’s notice. A SOLDIER was supposed to follow orders without question, and if General Sephiroth said to get some sleep, that was one command Zack was confident he could follow.

Except sleep would not come. Zack couldn’t decide if it was the cold Nibelheim air, the funny wet-wood smell of the room, or the kid shifting under the blankets in the bed next to his. Too bad the other one had lost the coin toss. In his mind, the other kid should have had first dibs. The poor guy had been carsick the entire trip; the last hour of bumpy dirt roads almost ending in disaster. As a last resort, the general has cast a sleeping spell on the hapless recruit in order to spare everyone further misery and an unpleasant cleanup detail.

To Zack’s mind, it wasn’t all that late. Even when one got up at o'dark-thirty, 11PM didn’t seem that bad. Then again, he’d never needed that much sleep, and the makou made up for any sluggishness no matter how many hours he did or didn’t get. He wished he’d brought a sweatshirt. The room was chilly. Sheets and blankets shrugged around his bare shoulders, he stole a glance at the general’s bed.

Despite his command that his troops get a good night sleep and the warning of an early morning, Sephiroth himself had yet to retire. Unlike many of the commanding officers, Sephiroth had deferred the inn’s small wash room to his subordinates, allowing them the benefit of what hot water there was. Zack also secretly suspected the general had done this so that he could change clothes in peace. There was no such thing as modesty in the army, but it was probably bad for morale or something for the troops to see the boss in his underpants. Although Zack was pretty sure that would be _good_ for morale; soldier, civilian, and pretty much everyone else’s- except maybe the general’s. Sephiroth was kinda uptight about military regulation that way. Zack chuckled to himself at the thought of the great General Sephiroth, hair haphazardly pulled back in a loose ponytail, bare-chested, and wearing flannel pajama pants while brushing his teeth. Even Sephiroth had to brush his teeth, didn’t he? As far as Zack knew, makou did not prevent cavities. He certainly didn’t want to find out from experience.

The lights were already out, the only ambiance coming from the stars gleaming in through a crack in the curtains. A horror movie creak from the door and a tall, deeper shade of black in the doorway announced the general’s return. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, his eyes glowing green in the darkness like those of a cat. Instead, he simply crossed the floor without so much as a squeak from the aged wooden planks to the remaining bed, setting his carefully folded kit on a nearby chair.

Ordinarily, Sephiroth would have had his own room. However, the upper floor of the Nibelheim inn was set up dormitory style, with three beds occupying a single large room. As the highest ranking members of the team, Zack and Sephiroth merited their own beds, leaving the two infantry guards to split the third. Zack had been half afraid the rustic bedsteads would be too short for the general’s impressive height, but apparently the things were almost a perfect square; as wide as they were long. The good news was that the beds were easily big enough for two people. The bad news that army or not, it was always damned awkward to share sleeping space with somebody if you weren’t dating them. At least, those were Zack’s thoughts on the subject. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the general slid his feet under the covers and stretched out. It was near thing, but he did, in fact, fit. Zack had been half afraid Sephiroth would have had to lie diagonally or else risk having his feet dangling over the edge.

“‘Night, sir,” Zack said, wishing he sounded and felt more sleepy.

“Good night,” was the flat, but not discourteous response. Turning over, Zack tried to get comfortable. Off to his right, the guard coughed and resettled as well. Apparently nobody was really ready to shut down. Nibelheim _was_ a couple of hours off from Midgar, but that meant according to his internal clock, it should be closer to 3AM. Which did not explain why he could not freaking _sleep_.

Outside, the village clock struck 1AM. After a few minutes, the guard who’d drawn first watch trudged in and stood expectantly at the side of the bed. Zack huffed into the darkness and waited while boots were put on, weapons taken up, and the other guard went outside. He’d expected the kid who’d just come in to shuck his gear in a heap on the floor and faceplant into the sheets in as little time as he could manage. Instead, he plunked down on the edge of the bed and just sat there for a minute.

Oh right. The kid used to live here.

“I’d ask if you were homesick, but this is your home,” Zack commented, wondering if the recruit could see his lopsided smile in the darkness. The younger man’s eyes glinted softly as he turned and offered a weak smile in response. Cloud- that’s what the kid’s name was- had naturally blue eyes. As a common infantryman, he had yet to be exposed to makou, but in the moonlight his eyes shone like pieces of polished materia.

“I still feel a little gross from the ride up here,” he admitted. “I’m not sure lying down is a good idea.”

“Go downstairs and get yourself a mug of tea,” the general’s voice cut into the darkness. Both Zack and Cloud blinked at that.

“Er...thank you, sir,” Cloud said with a sloppy half-salute before wandering out the door.

“Poor kid,” Zack remarked as Cloud creaked his way down the stairs. “I hate puking.”

“He’s not vomiting,” the general corrected.

“Only through sheer force of will,” Zack countered. “Besides, that acid, gaggy feeling is bad enough on its own. Hell, he might feel better if he _did_ puke. Get it over with, yanno?”

“I trust your judgement on that,” was the dry response. It was the closest the general usually came to humor. Probably something to do with being a commanding officer _and_ a living legend.

“Haven’t you ever had the flu?” The question was honest, curious, and not the least bit accusing. The mighty Sephiroth had probably never had so much as a cold once in his life. He could probably put the fear of Holy into germs just by glaring at them. The general was silent for a long moment.

“Not in years,” was his eventual answer.

“How many years?”

He seemed to be counting. “Twenty, I think.”

“You haven’t been sick since you were _five_?” Zack gawped. Sephiroth’s silhouette shifted as his broad shoulders rose briefly in a shrug.

“I think I might have caught a cold when I was nine,” he mused, apparently searching the recesses of his memory. “I don’t really remember. I’m sure the professor has it noted somewhere. Either way, it’s been a long time.” He shrugged again. “Makou.”

“Damn,” was all Zack could come up with. However, knowing that makou was a good defense against the common cold made the next round of injections somewhat more appealing. Somewhat.

The hot scent of steam and the coolness of mint percolated the darkness. A moment later, Cloud shuffled through the door, a mug of tea cradled in both hands. Sitting down on the bed- this time on the edge nearest the other two men- he took a cautious sip.

“Sorry to keep you up,” he mumbled over the lip of the mug. Zack had lifted a hand to wave the apology away, but thought better of it. He outranked the kid, but it was up to the general to decide whether or not Cloud would be forgiven, or warrant a light reprimand. Before he could close his mouth or lower his hand, however, the general spoke up.

“It’s alright. I want to know that you’re fully recovered. Besides, neither of us was sleeping.”

“What he said,” Zack seconded. “Guess we’re waiting for our internal clocks to catch up or something.”

“Oh… Well, as long as I’m not keeping anybody up…”

“Nah,” and this time he did wave away the apology.

“Okay…”

For a moment they sat awkwardly in silence, the only sounds penetrating the darkness the settling of the building, the tiny night creatures outside, and Cloud quietly sipping at his tea. Sephiroth leaned back against the headboard of his bed with a barely audible sigh, his chin tipped toward the ceiling. Tugging the blankets free, Zack wrapped them around his shoulders like a cloak.

“Well, since nobody’s tired, wanna tell ghost stories?” he asked. Sephiroth turned his head to give him a decidedly confounded stare. Zack shrugged sheepishly. “Well nobody’s gonna sleep anyway.”

The perplexity in the brilliant green eyes had not lessened. Right. Normally commanding officers didn’t go in for this sort of thing. It was the sort of dog watch, tight-corner conversation only the grunts had with each other. For a brief moment, Zack felt sorry for him.

“You know any good ones Cloud?”

The younger man coughed and sputtered, having chosen that moment to try and swallow a mouthful of tea.

“Me?” he gasped.

“Yeah. What about that creepy old haunted house at the edge of town?”

“You mean the Shinra mansion?”

“Shinra mansion?” Sephiroth echoed. “I was given to understand that only the reactor was Shinra property.”

“Well, it’s been called that for as long as I can remember. There were people from Shinra who lived there once.”

“Who?” Zack asked, intrigued. “Some sort of rich big wig?”

“More likely some corporate upstart,” the general put in. Cloud shook his head, messy blonde hair glinting briefly silver in the dim light.

“Nope, it was mostly scientists.”

“Scientists?” It was Sephiroth’s turn to be intrigued.

“See…” Cloud paused, looked into this mug, apparently collecting himself. Taking a final sip, he set the mug down and pulled his feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“This is how my mom told it to me. When she was little, back before she was married, Shinra came to town. It wasn’t the first time they’d come; they’d built the reactor long before her time, but this was the first time in a long time that Shinra had ever been interested in boring old backwoods Nibelheim.

“There were trucks full of supplies, trucks full of books and equipment, and one truck full of people. There were no SOLDIERS in those days, but they did have TURKS. A group of Shinra scientists had come to study something they’d found in the mountains; two men, and two women. Two couples. Study what, they never told us, and the TURKS did a good job keeping the scientists separate from the locals.”

Cloud had forgotten he had an audience. His posture had relaxed, his voice falling into the cadence of a tale told and heard a hundred times, repeating it the way it had been told to him.

“They stayed for quite a while. At first it was a bit strange, but after a while, everyone got used to it. While they didn’t interact much, the townsfolk got used to seeing the TURKS and the scientists come and go. Whatever they were doing in that mansion, they mostly kept to themselves, and we all figured it wasn’t worth bothering about.

“Mom saw them here and there, shopping at the general store, picking up mail at the post office, or just walking around the village. Usually, husband and wife would go out together, or sometimes both the wives would go out with a TURK to look after them. It was always the same one: a tall man with black hair.

“One night, the lights in the mansion went out. Terrible noises echoed around the mountainsides. People swore they heard gunfire, screams, and worse. For three days it was dark and no one went in or out. Late on the third day, the trucks arrived to take all the supplies, and scientists, and TURKS back to Midgar. They did not take the books, but they did take something else: a coffin. Instead of a truck, a car had been brought for the scientists, since one of the wives was expecting a baby. When the TURKS got into their truck, one of them was missing. Nobody knew what had become him, but everybody suspected.

“After the Shinra people had left, the mansion became dark. Shinra troops and maintenance crews came by from time to time to check up on the reactor, but the chain was never taken off the mansion door. No one ever went inside it. Everyone in Nibelheim was too afraid. See, not long after the scientists left, strange things began to happen there.

“The mansion might be abandoned, but it was not silent. Screams could be heard coming from within its walls. Inhuman roars rumbled through the stone. Strange creatures- the results of the experiments the scientists performed- began to roam its halls. You can still see lights flickering in the windows sometimes, and on still nights, you can hear the screams.”

“Anybody ever go in to check it out?” Zack asked. As ghost stories went, Cloud’s recitation had a bit to be desired, but it was intriguing nonetheless.

Cloud shook his head. “No one’s crazy enough to try. I mean yeah, okay, kids have dared each other to knock on the door or throw rocks at the windows, but I’ve never heard of anyone going in.”

Zack had trouble believing this. “Not ever?”

“Never ever. It helps that the door’s chained and locked and the Shinra people took the key.”

“They didn’t give it back?”

Cloud shook his head again. “Not that I know of. Doesn’t really matter. It’s not like anyone’s ever gonna willingly go in there.”

“I want to go in.”

Both Cloud and Zack looked up sharply. Sephiroth’s green stare pierced the darkness as he looked back.

“I want to go in,” he repeated. Noting the blank stares of his subordinates, he tried to explain. “We’re here to investigate the monsters. If research was performed there, then whatever happened inside the mansion may well be part of the problem.”

Cloud, apparently did not think much of this turn of events if the look of vague horror plastered across his face was any indication. Sephiroth nodded at him.

“You will lead us there.”

Cloud swallowed hard, the action involving his entire body. “Wait, me?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth continued. Turning to Zack, he ordered: “Get dressed.”

“What, now?” Zack asked, now just as dumbfounded as Cloud.

“Yes. Both of you. Doubletime.” Turning his back to them, he bent at the waist, stripping off his pajamas before reaching for his uniform trousers. It took Zack a moment before he was able to shake himself and start pulling on his own clothing. Too bad it was so dark. SOLDIERS had decent night vision, but he’d not yet had enough makou to make out much fine detail. Alas, his morale would have to wait another day. Night. Something. Cloud didn’t have much to do, just pull his boots back on and retie them. While it didn’t take Zack long to pull himself together, Sephiroth was still ready in half the time, despite his uniform being much more elaborate.

“Alright Strife,” Sephiroth prompted. “Lead the way.”

 

\--


	2. Lost Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys do their best Mystery Inc. impression. The rewards from this particular scavenger hunt are savage indeed.

Exploring a local terror spot in the wee hours of the morning was _not_ what Cloud had signed up for when he joined the army. Facing vicious monsters? Sure. Oncoming hordes of angry Wutiains? No big. But this, for reasons he could not explain, was far beyond the pale. His one consolation was that the thick- and now badly rusted- chain and deadbolt still held the front doors firmly shut. Sephiroth, however, gave it one look and pointed at it, the flicker of the spell visible in the darkness. A small explosion of rust particles, a whiff of ozone, and the chain fell to the ground with an deafening crash. Inwardly, Cloud sighed and prepared to take point.

“What are you doing?” Sephiroth asked him.

“I...you said...I should lead you…?” Cloud stammered.

“Do you know your way around this house?” The question was polite, even friendly. Cloud blinked, experiencing the queer feeling that he was not actually in trouble.

“Not...really…”

“Then there is no reason for you to go first.”

Cloud was not about to argue. Pushing the door open required the general to put his shoulder against it, the rusted hinges emitting a dry shriek so shrill it made all three of them cringe and wince. Inside it was pitch dark, and Cloud swallowed hard, steeling himself as he readied his weapon in one hand, and flashlight in the other. Zack and the general might not need ambient light to see where they were going, but Cloud wanted to see what was trying to bite his face off so he could at least have a chance to either fight or get the hell out of the way.

The flashlight’s yellow light illuminated what once must have been a very grand entryway. A sweeping staircase curved up the righthand wall to a gallery of sorts. The stars shone weakly through leaded glass windows encrusted with a layer of dirt and dust so thick that it was nearly impenetrable. Their footsteps echoed menacingly, magnified in the darkness as they crossed the intricately patterned parquet floor. Spiderwebs crowded the corners, and hung so thickly on the chandelier that it looked like an enormous ball of moldy, gray, cotton candy. Sweeping the beam of his flashlight back and forth, Cloud squinted in the dark for the telltale gleam of eyes watching them from the shadows.

“Now what?” Zack whispered, the heavy silence making talking at full volume seem like a bad idea.

Sephiroth tilted his chin up, green eyes glowing as he cast about the foyer for something that might catch his attention. He reminded Zack of an animal scenting the wind, testing the air for scent and sound that told of danger.

“This way.” Turning, he wandered toward one of the yawning holes of darkness and into the cavern of a side room. There wasn’t much inside, just some old furniture with a collection of vials and books and a lot of dust on top. Their footsteps muffled by the dust coating the floor, the crackle of paper seemed deafening. Stooping, Sephiroth picked up the folded bit of paper.

“ _I must get rid of all those who stand in the way of my research,_ ” he read. “ _Even that one from the Turks. I scientifically altered him, and put him to sleep in the basement. If you want to find him, then search the area. But...this is merely a game I thought of. It is not necessary for you to participate if you don't want to._

_The lid of the box with the most oxygen._

_Behind the Ivory's short of tea and ray._

_The creek in the floor near the chair on the second floor... then to the left five steps, up nine steps, left two steps, and up six steps._

”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zack asked.

“Experiments,” Cloud supplied. “The scientists left an experiment in the basement.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Then we must see if he is still there.”

Zack craned his neck, trying to read the note for himself, but it was too dark. “Those sound like clues, but to what?”

“Maybe the answers are hidden in different parts of the house?” Cloud suggested. Sephiroth nodded in agreement.

“Then let’s get started.”

They began on that side of the house, but there didn’t prove to be much else to discover. Crossing the foyer led them to an empty parlour. As the lightest, Cloud volunteered to test the stairs, and made it to the top without incident before waving Zack and Sephiroth forward. The gallery proved remarkably solid if horribly unkempt, like the rest of the building. Unsure what exactly they were looking for, at first the boys found little else but vermin made curious by the presence of visitors.

Sephiroth- perhaps predictably- identified the answer to the first clue in an empty tool chest in what was once the conservatory. A few hardy plants were still alive and growing out of a broken window. Inside the lid of the tool chest someone had written “R36” in black marker.

After fruitless searching for a tea set, it was Cloud who spotted the piano in the corner of the vacant ballroom. Sitting down on the bench, his fingers rippled over the keys in a basic C-major scale. Zack and Sephiroth cringed, and a number of creatures went scurrying away to darker corners a the noise. The instrument was atrociously out of tune, each jangling note vibrating bizarrely as it was struck. Several of the keys did not work at all. It was these Cloud was interested in.

“Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do,” he sang out with each note, and then back again as his right hand traveled back down the keys. “Do, ti, la, so…” The G key made no sound when pressed. Indeed, it did not want to go down at all. Something was wedged in between it and the next key. With a triumphant grin, Cloud wiggled a small piece of folded paper loose.

“L10,” he read, holding the paper up to his flashlight.

“How’d you know that?” Zack asked, impressed. Cloud shrugged modestly.

“I took piano as a kid. ‘Ti’ and ‘re’ are part of the musical scale, but whoever wrote that note spelled them phonetically.”

Sephiroth nodded approvingly and then turned to continue the search. Locating the creak in the floor was a bit of a group effort, but in the end, Cloud shone his flashlight’s beam on “R59” scratched into the wooden floorboard.

The last clue, strangely enough, was blank. Sephiroth frowned at it with such intensity that Cloud was half convinced the aged paper would burst into flames.

“There’s writing there,” he said at length, frustrated, “but I can’t make it out.”

A mental lightbulb went off in Zack’s head and he grabbed the paper from Sephiroth and the flashlight from Cloud’s hand. Instead of shining the light down on the paper, he held the light beneath it. Translucent ghosts of letters appeared spelling out: “R97”.

“Nice work,” Sephiroth told him, giving credit where credit was due. “R36, L10, R59, R97...” he mused. “Sounds like a combination lock.”

“We passed a safe upstairs,” Zack said, remembering. “Let’s go see what’s in it.”

It took a few tries to get the safe open. Once they did, however, Cloud got the distinct impression that they _really_ should have seen that one coming.

The thing that emerged could not have possibly fit in there, yet it came toward them all the same. Zack would accuse Cloud of shrieking later, but Sephiroth would insist that he had not heard any such thing. Half muscle and half plasma, it did not seem to appreciate being disturbed. Automatically Zack and Cloud fell back as Sephiroth stepped forward to take point between them. Light flared as the creature rushed toward them.

“Cloud, don’t be a hero! Stay back!” Zack warned. However, when one of the thing’s tentacles wiggled his way, Cloud sidestepped and swiped at it with his Hardedge. The strike did little more than anger the thing even further, but Zack had to admit the kid had guts. Deciding to finish this quickly, Sephiroth drew Masamune and lunged. The creature let out a hideous noise that was somewhere between a roar and a shriek as the bulging purple muscle of its right side shriveled and vanished, leaving only the ball of neon plasma. The general’s eyes narrowed at it and he took a step back.

“Cover me!” he ordered. Light flared around him as he muttered a chant to cast the spell.

For an incredibly tense twenty-three seconds, Cloud and Zack kept the thing at bay. Cloud only narrowly dodged a powerful ice spell that left a hole in the floor, and Zack caught the stench of burning acrylic when it hurled a fireball at him. At last the general looked up, eyes alight with green fire as he opened his hand and let the spell fly. The creature shrieked again, the sound sharp and drawn out like nails dragged across a blackboard. The sudden descent of the velvet darkness and downy silence of the empty house felt welcoming after the controlled chaos of battle.

“Good job, Cloud-o,” Zack congratulated, giving the kid a thumbs up. He might not have gotten any big hits in, but he hadn’t run from the fight either. If anything, he was a little too eager to rush into danger. That might be because the general was watching, or because the guy was naturally a little reckless. Either way, he’d done his share, and that merited thanks in Zack’s book.

“Thanks,” Cloud gasped, hastily swallowing the last bits of a potion. Zack hadn’t even realized the younger man had taken a hit. Only then did he notice a long red gash on Cloud’s forearm slowly pulling itself back together. A soft, makou-green light enveloped them both, and Zack felt the warm-rain sensation of a cure spell chasing over his skin. The static electricity generated by magic always tickled his nose and he sneezed as the spell faded.

“Everyone alright?” Sephiroth asked, lowering the hand that had cast the spell.

“Fine,” Zack replied. “Was there anything in there besides a face-eating monster?”

“Yes, actually.” Holding up his hand, Sephiroth displayed an iron ring with a number of elaborate, antique keys dangling from it. “I should imagine one of these leads to the basement.”

\--


	3. A Little Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys recruit a new member.

This brought the term “stair well” to a whole new level in Cloud’s mind. Every horror movie he’d ever seen playing through his head, he edged down the narrow wooden walkway behind Sephiroth and Zack.

“Who the hell builds shit like this?” Zack murmured, the deep silo of stone magnifying his words as if he had shouted.

“People who don’t want to get attacked,” Cloud answered barely above a whisper. His voice echoed, but with far less volume.

“This was once a castle keep,” the general finished, drawing the correct conclusion from Cloud’s reply. “This stone construction is the oldest part of the building.”

“Yep,” Cloud confirmed. “People just kept building on top of it.”

“But why dig so deep?” Zack asked. Cloud let out a breath as they finally reached the bottom, happy to have his feet on solid ground again.

“There’s caves all throughout the mountains, I’d bet money this connected to them at one time.”

“There are bones over there.”

Both Zack and Cloud stopped and looked. There was indeed a small heap of calcified remains piled against the wall. Sephiroth eyed them for a long moment.

“Are those...human?” Zack asked.

Sephiroth shook his head. “No. Too small. And humans don’t have teeth like that. Those are animal bones, of the kind commonly used in laboratories.”

Cloud shivered. “The scientists.”

“Most likely. Come on.”

“Does this count as a catacomb?” Zack asked as they crept down the low-ceilinged stone tube.

“I think this is just a plain old tunnel,” Cloud explained. “Catacombs are where you bury people.”

“Then it appears we have found the crypt.” Sephiroth had stopped before a rough wooden door bound with iron hinges set inside a finely dressed stone frame. An unmistakable- if rather primitive- skull with wings sticking out from beneath its chin looked down on them from the lintel. Selecting the correct key, Sephiroth repeated the process of forcing the stubborn lock and shouldering the door open.

“This is usually the part where we all get eaten,” Cloud remarked, shining his flashlight into the deeper darkness inside the room. Rotted coffins and piles of bones- this time human- lay arranged haphazardly against the walls. Zack eyed the mess, knowing in his head the bones were harmless, but feeling creeped-out nonetheless. None of the coffins had their lids intact- except for one. Larger, and newer than the rest, it sat almost directly opposite the door.

Flicking through the series of iron keys, Sephiroth compared them to the ornate lock on the sarcophagus. Selecting one, he inserted it into the lock and turned. The lock gave grudgingly, Sephiroth pressing his lips together with the effort of forcing the rusty tumblers to move. With a heavy click and a puff of dusty air from beneath the coffin lid, the lock sprang open. At his side, Zack could swear he heard Cloud’s heartbeat thumping loudly in the darkness. To his credit, the younger man held his ground, weapon poised and breathing steady if perhaps a hair fast and over-deep. Zack shifted into a ready stance himself, and Cloud relaxed slightly, reminded he wasn’t alone.

It wasn’t easy for Sephiroth to get his gloved fingers under the coffin lid. Heaving it to one side proved more difficult than anticipated as well. Shifting so that he knelt on one knee, he got his weight under it and heaved. The lid flew up, tumbling end over end and bouncing off the far wall before it clattered to the floor with a deafening crash. Rising, Sephiroth leaned and peered into the threadbare plush interior.

A long figure lay wrapped head to foot in a scarlet shroud. At first Zack thought the winding sheet was steeped in blood, and then realized that could not be right. Blood stained fabric black or brown, not red. He ought to know. Gingerly, the general reached a cautious hand and drew back a fold of the shroud. Zack had expected death and decay, rotting flesh, or perhaps dry bones. He had not expected this.

The pale white face was masculine, if fine-featured, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. Long black hair framed that face, and reached as far as his shoulders. Sephiroth pulled the shroud the rest of the way back, or tried to. Halfway it refused to pull any farther, revealing itself to be the hem of a long red cloak. The man’s uniform was antique, though vaguely familiar. It reminded Zack of some of the earlier Shinra dress uniforms he’d seen in one of the older training manuals.

“Is he...dead?” Cloud asked into the silence. Sephiroth did not answer, only stared down at the inert body in the coffin.

“He doesn’t seem to be breathing…”

If the guy in the coffin was dead, he couldn’t have been so for more than five minutes. His body and clothing were pristine, untouched by mold or insects. He didn’t even smell dead, though Sephiroth was wrinkling his nose at something else.

“What is it?”

“He _reeks_ of makou,” the general replied, rubbing at his nose with the back of one hand. “As bad as a faulty reactor. In fact,” he said, straightening, “the whole basement stinks of sour makou.”

“Can makou go sour?” Zack blinked. “I thought that was just like...machinery or creatures acting up.”

“Technically no, but it can be contaminated. If Professor Hojo experimented on this man, I imagine contaminated makou is the least of his problems.”

“He looks good for being dead,” Cloud remarked. “Unless he’s a vampire.”

“Dude, do _not_ even kid about that,” Zack warned him.

Either Sephiroth hadn’t heard, or he was ignoring his subordinates. Silently, he stood and contemplated the man in the coffin for a long moment. Deciding there was nothing else for it, he knelt and pushed two fingers below the man’s jaw, feeling for a pulse.

The corpse’s eyes snapped opened, revealing irises as red as his cloak. Everyone- even Sephiroth- started back, the general landing ungracefully on his behind before scrambling to his feet. The man in the coffin hadn’t just risen, simply sitting up would have been too mundane. Cloak swirling around him like a thing alive, the man rose- literally rose, straight up perhaps six feet in the air, the edge of his cape brushing the ceiling of the vault- before resettling near the head of his coffin. He stood there for a moment, red eyes flicking from one to the other, no decipherable expression on his pale features. Indeed, most of his face was shrugged deep into the high collar of his cloak, leaving only his eyes to stare back at them like two live coals in the darkness.

Zack’s heartbeat had drowned out Cloud’s, and Sephiroth had unsheathed Masamune. All of them crouched into a ready stance, each waiting for the the other to make the first move. At length the man straightened, cloak flowing around his long body as if in an imperceptible breeze. The red stare came to rest on Sephiroth. Behind his high collar, his lips moved, words as dull and rusty as his coffin lock scratched the silence:

“ _You would dare to wake me from the nightmare…_ ”

His voice was low and gravely, as if the earth of the crypt had spoken for him. He blinked, the bloody light of his eyes extinguished for a moment, and Zack got the eerie feeling that the guy was seeing them for the first time.

“...I do not know you.”

The tone was smoother, more even, and easily step or so lighter than the last time he’d spoken.  
Every hair Zack possessed stood on end as something deep inside him screamed that this was _not right_. Beside him, Cloud did a another full-body swallow, but held his ground. Although the guy in the red cloak hadn’t made any sudden moves, Zack curled and flexed the fingers of his right hand. Having the grip of the Buster sword slung on his back held firmly in his hands would make him feel a lot better, but it wouldn’t do to provoke an attack. Until they had reason to suspect otherwise, they were all on the same side.

“Who are you?”

Some of the weirdness evaporated in the face of the very human emotion of confusion. The red-eyed man’s words were bewildered, as was the expression on Sephiroth’s face. How could people not know the great Sephiroth? Then again, this guy _had_ been locked in a coffin. Zack doubted the cable reception in there was very good. Surely he couldn’t have been down there _that_ long. The thing had been sealed shut, there wouldn’t have been enough oxygen in it for more than a day or two. Admittedly Nibelheim was the back of beyond but everyone _else_ in town knew who Sephiroth was. So why didn’t this guy? 

“Duh, that’s Sephiroth,” Zack told him. “You’ve only seen his face all over the damn place for like the last ten years.”

Unless Cloud’s story was true, and it was looking more and more like it was… The _oh crap_ feeling returned, making him shiver.

“That will do, Fair,” the general said rather stiffly. Aware he’d shoved his foot in his mouth, Zack inclined his head in apology.

“Sorry, sir.”

The man in red was still staring.

“No…” he breathed. “It cannot be… _You_ are Sephiroth?”

“It is not a common name,” the general replied dryly. 

“But you… You are…” he stammered. “You’re so _tall_!”

“You were expecting someone shorter?”

The guy in red put both hands to his head as if it hurt. His left hand, Zack noted, was covered in shiny bronze armor.

“You were only a child when Hojo locked me away…” Lifting his head again, he looked at the general with something like hope deep in his eyes. “Tell me...is your mother well?”

This was all getting too weird for Zack. For his part, Sephiroth stood still, as if turned to stone, only an expression of vague perplexity pulling at his features.

“My mother is dead,” Sephiroth began, speech uncharacteristically halting. “She died giving birth to me.”

Zack honestly thought the man from the coffin was going to dissolve into tears, or maybe keel over and faint. He’d seen that look before, on the faces of soldiers who had just watched their best friends die. What little color there was had drained from his face and he wavered where he stood.

“Then Lucrecia is dead…”

“Lucrecia?” Zack echoed, unable to stop himself. “Who’s she?”

“A scientist,” the red-eyed man began, voice distant and attention drawn inward. “An assistant to Professor Gast in the Jenova project.”

Sephiroth’s eyebrows twisted, confused. “My mother’s name was ‘Jenova’.”

The red-eyed man blinked. He stepped forward so that he was less than arm’s length from the general. Sephiroth shied back fractionally, but otherwise did not move. Standing, the man in red was eye-to-eye with Sephiroth, something few men could boast. Looking at them facing each other, a shiver ran down Zack’s spine.

“Dude,” he whispered to Cloud who stood transfixed and gaping at the two men silhouetted within the flashlight’s halo. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Dumbly, Cloud nodded. Like a study in contrasts, Sephiroth and Vincent stared at one another, green eyes into red, white to black, silver to gold. Maybe it was their clothing, maybe it was their hairstyles, or even their height, but Cloud thought there was an uncanny similarity between the two of them.

“Your mother’s name is not ‘Jenova’...” the red-eyed man said, the quiet tone magnified in the underground chamber. “Her name is ‘Lucrecia’.”

The silence was so heavy it made Zack’s ears hurt.

“You look like her...” the red-eyed man man said softly, reaching a hand toward Sephiroth but then stopping short. “You have her eyes- not the color of course, but the shape. You have her forehead too, and her nose. That’s just as well. Your father was not exactly a handsome man.”

The expression on the general’s face was the closest thing to a stupid look Zack had ever seen. He stared at the red-eyed man, clearly wondering if he were mad. Could he believe the word of someone they’d just exhumed from a coffin? Was this the truth, or just the deranged ravings of an experiment gone wrong? Zack thought about what little he knew of Professor Hojo and tried to compare it to what had been said. In the end, he was forced to concede that this was not, in fact, the craziest thing he’d ever heard regarding Shinra in general and Professor Hojo in particular. Sephiroth, however, didn’t feel the same way.

“I don’t understand,” he began, his voice strangely small. “How could you have known my mother?”

“Because I was there. I knew your mother, and your father too.”

Sephiroth blinked. “My father?”

“Professor Hojo.

“ _NO!!!_ ”

The swing was so swift, Zack did not even see it. One minute the red-eyed man was standing face-to-face with the general, the next he’d been thrown against the far wall of the room. His narrow body connected with the stone wall with a painful thud before sliding to the floor. For a long moment he lay half-curled on hands and knees, his body vibrating with what Zack assumed to be pain. When he looked up, black blood ran in syrupy rivulets from his nose and mouth. The hand without armor was pressed against his mid-section where Masamune had torn a long slash. More oily blood trickled across the fair skin of his forearm to be absorbed by the dirt floor.

“I don’t believe you,” Sephiroth snarled, advancing, Masamune’s bloodied blade poised. “There is _no way_ that walking mass of complexes sired me!”

The red-eyed man tried to get up, but collapsed back to all fours, his features contorted in pain. The point of Masamune digging into his throat, the wounded man looked up to meet Sephiroth’s predatory stare. The accusing look that had so often signaled an early and violent death for many an enemy faltered at the deep sadness in the other man’s eyes.

“Tell me the truth,” Sephiroth hissed through clenched teeth. “Tell me!”

“Sephiroth…” The word was gargled, almost vomited, pronounced as it was on a wave of blood. At his elbow, Zack heard Cloud gag. Sephiroth took a half step back as the red-eyed man coughed, retching more black blood onto the floor. When he lifted his head again, a crazed fire had kindled in his eyes. Danger shivered up Zack’s spine, hard and sharp as a kick to the tailbone. Unthinking, he grabbed his sword and held it ready. The red-eyed man gasped, jaw working but making no sound. At length, he managed a single word:

“ _Run!_ ”

Beside him, Zack heard Cloud puke. He didn’t blame him. Taking a step back, he held up his Buster sword with trembling hands. The red-eyed man’s body had begun to stretch and strain in directions the human body was not meant to go. He screamed- honestly _screamed_ \- his deep voice twisted sharp and shrill, as if razor-edged teeth were tearing him apart from the inside. With both hands he clutched his head, and Zack fought the urge to be sick himself as the man’s face melted like soft wax, mouth and nose extending into a long, canine snout. Square human teeth curved down into sharp and yellow fangs. Large ears and long horns sprouted from his head. The black uniform darkened and blurred, becoming thick, shaggy fur, a long tail lashing back and forth behind him.

The transformation complete, the beast let out a howl that shook the walls, triggering a shower of dirt and gravel from the ceiling. Snarling and slavering, it looked at them as a group and then lunged, heading straight for Cloud. The younger boy jumped, but swung his weapon, managing to at least catch the thing with the sharp end of the blade as it tackled him to the floor. Cloud’s flashlight went rolling away and blinked off, plunging them all into total darkness.

The beast grabbed Cloud’s Hardedge in its jaws like a bone, trying to tear it out of his hands, but Cloud held on, refusing to give ground. Blind in the darkness, it was all the younger boy could do. Pinned on his back, he kicked, trying to catch the beast in the stomach.

“DOWN!” Zack shouted taking a swing at the thing if only to draw its attention away from Cloud. “DOWN BOY, DOWN! BAD DOG! SIT!”

Losing interest in Cloud, the beast rounded on Zack, jaws gaping. It barked at him once, the sharp sound ringing in his eardrums and shaking more dirt loose from the ceiling.

Light flashed and Zack shouted in surprise, squinting against the sudden brightness stabbing his pupils. There was a snarl and a yelp and Zack forced himself to look through the blinding light. A lit flare sputtered among the loose bones. Cloud stood on his feet again, blood running from one arm but sword poised and ready. Sephiroth had one foot planted on the beast’s massive shoulder and Masamune embedded deep in its neck. With a yank he dislodged the sword and stepped back, waiting for the creature to dissolve into light and mist once it had breathed its last. However, the rough, growling breaths did not quiet. Instead, the thing lurched to all fours and howled a second time.

Fur slid away into ragged clothing, flesh reshaping itself into something more closely resembling a man- for a very loose definition of “man”. It was bipedal, but that was about it. This was a creature that had been stitched together from spare parts. It groaned and lumbered toward Zack on legs that did not match. Sparks fizzed from its joints, electricity rippling in blue-white lines along its limbs. Zack readied his weapon, expecting it to lunge at him the way the beast had, but instead his whole body went rigid as pain lanced through every nerve. He stumbled to one knee, the stench of burning hair filling his nose. Stupid thing had blindsided him with a lightning bolt! Shaking it off, Zack lurched to his feet in time to see Cloud take a kamikaze swing at it. Bolts of lightning showered from the ceiling and Zack swallowed a scream as more electricity arced along his backbone.

“ _CLOUD!_ ” The general’s voice rang out amid the crack and boom of thunder. The younger man was quick to obey, diving out of the way as Sephiroth hurled Masamune like a spear. The monster roared, the sound like a dozen rusty engines gunning at once. Masamune stuck out of it like a skewer out of a hotdog; still it advanced. Zack poised his Buster sword, but watching this time for the telltale charge of magic. From the other side of the room came a sharp whistle. At once the creature turned to face the noise. Electricity crackled up and down the shaft of Masamune as it began its spell. It never got to finish, its howl of rage reduced to gargling as Sephiroth engulfed it in a wave of water.

Although he knew better than to expect the thing to wither away, Zack was nonetheless disappointed when a fresh creature lumbered to its feet. This one was only slightly more man-shaped than the first, its body covered in the rags of a workman’s uniform and face hidden by a mask. Most alarmingly, it held a long, serrated blade in both hands. At first Zack thought the mechanical war-cry came from behind the mask, but quickly realized it was from the saw. 

Not waiting for it to attack anyone else, Zack rushed forward with a cry of his own. The thing met him with equal force, the many teeth of its blade grinding sickeningly against his Buster sword. Sparks flew as metal sheared against metal. Zack managed to shove the thing back after a moment or two but promptly felt sick. The creature revved its saw again, and ran at him, weapon raised high over its head. Too busy tossing his cookies, Zack did not get to see the thing stop short when it noticed Masamune poking through its middle. While Sephiroth held it fast, Cloud tossed Zack an esuna which he caught and hurried to swallow. The abomination struggled for a minute but eventually screamed and collapsed over the blade, crumbling to a heap on the floor.

“Did we kill it?” Zack gasped, standing with Cloud’s help.

No, apparently they hadn’t.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me…” Cloud squeaked as the monster’s form gathered itself yet again. The group took a collective step back as huge bat-like wings suddenly spread from the creature’s back.

“What the everloving _fuck_?” Zack swore. He had the unique experience of watching his commander’s eyes widen in horror as the creature resolved from an amorphous glob of red plasma into something that caused three chins to drop and three hearts to sink right through the floor. Zack would recount later that he had nearly pissed himself at that moment, and would not be the least bit ashamed to admit it.

“Shit…”

It was the first time either of them had heard the commander swear.

“GET BACK!”

Zack and Cloud did not need to be told twice. The only problem was, there was almost nowhere to go. The crypt was small, the rotting coffins the only objects that would provide even the suggestion of cover. No sooner had these observations been made than the room seemed to melt away. There was no floor, no ceiling, only an endless black void. Out of the nothingness rose a laugh so cold and emotionless it made Zack’s flesh crawl.

The blackness collected, condensing into a creature that was blacker than night, blacker than sin. Great horns curved back from its heavy brows, and claws black and shiny as obsidian tipped each finger and toe. Enormous blood-red wings, veined and leathery like that of a bat curled above its shoulders. A long, spike-tipped tail waved back and forth behind it. The wings flapped lazily as it hung above them, leering down on them with glowing, blood-red eyes.

Raising one clawed hand, it struck. Zack did not have time to even blink. Abruptly he found himself thrown to the floor, every nerve vibrating in _pain_. He could not move, could barely breathe. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Cloud, face-down and inert at the other end of the void. He hoped he was still alive. Zack’s view of Sephiroth facing the demon was sideways, and slid in and out of focus as he fought to remain conscious. Watching the two black-clad creatures duel was like watching a hurricane, claws and swords moving too fast for mortal eyes to follow. Cloud’s flare fizzled and died, and Zack was left to track the battle by the spark of steel against steel, the flare of magic, and the inhuman sound of the demon’s roar of pain. It filled his head, vibrating it like a bell, until Zack was certain that his ears would explode.

All at once, silence fell. The distant music of fairy chimes and the sensation of summer rain telling him the general had won. Zack had not doubted for a second that he wouldn’t. With a groan, he dragged himself to his hands and knees. Suddenly a warm, yellow light clicked on and he felt a strong hand under his arm, hoisting him to his feet. The general had found Cloud’s flashlight.

“Thanks,” Zack panted, retrieving his sword before following Sephiroth across the room to where Cloud was stiffly picking himself up.

Body still vibrating from a mix of exertion and adrenaline, Zack wiped at what he thought was sweat, but turned out to be blood. Cloud could barely stand up. It took both Zack and Sephiroth to get the younger man on his feet. He swayed dangerously, so Zack looped Cloud’s arm over his neck. As per usual, the general bore not a single scratch mark, but he seemed ever so slightly winded, and had more than a few hairs out of place.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Zack asked, not truly expecting an answer. The man they’d found in the coffin had reverted to his human form and lay face-down on the floor, his narrow body blanketed by his long red cloak.

“I have no idea,” Sephiroth replied, hesitantly nudging the man’s shoulder with the flat of Masamune’s blade. The man did not stir.

“Did we kill him? As in _kill_ him - kill him - kill him?”

The man in the red cloak gave an indistinct groan. Cloud echoed it.

“Nope.”

“Enough,” Sephiroth announced. Stepping forward, he seized the man by his hair and yanked his head back, setting Masamune’s edge against his exposed throat.

“Do it…” the man’s red eyes were glazed and unfocused, but his voice was calm and steady, and surprisingly deep. “Please.”

Sephiroth blinked and seemed on the verge of granting the shape-shifter his wish when Zack spoke up.

“Who _are_ you?”

“I…” he began. “I am…” He didn’t get any farther. The words trailed away into silence, leaving only a rather blank expression. He squinted his eyes shut once, twice, as if trying to clear his vision. At last he became aware that he was hanging with all his weight from his hair alone, and tried to gather his body beneath him. Sephiroth pressed the blade against his skin and the man froze at once, only lifting both hands level with his shoulders in surrender.

“My name is Vincent,” he said in a much lighter tone than before, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself as much as them. “Vincent Valentine. At one time, I was a Turk. Now...” He shrugged. “Well, you’ve met my ‘friends’.”

The wound Sephiroth had inflicted on him, Zack noted, almost completely gone. Only his clothing bore any sign of the deep slash that had practically split him in two. For a long moment Sephiroth just stared at him, expression unreadable. At length, he resheathed Masamune. Looking down at the man on his knees in the dirt in front of him, Sephiroth raised a hand and began to chant. Zack blinked, recognizing the cadence of the words if unable to decipher each syllable clearly. The incantation for healing had always sounded like a prayer to him, which, he supposed, was fitting.

“ _Bless the body that gives its strength to your cause, heal these wounds that it may fight on,_ ” Sephiroth murmured, eyes closed, before opening his hand and releasing the spell. Sea green energy sparkled around Vincent’s red cloak, pooling in a glimmering puddle around him before evaporating in a mist of shining light. The spell had been strong, restoring not just health but his uniform as well, all traces of Masamune’s work had vanished. Still kneeling, Vincent looked up at Sephiroth, not knowing how to interpret his actions.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” Sephiroth began, the words slow and awkward, “but...what proof can you offer me?”

Vincent thought for a moment. “...is the laboratory still here?”

The boys exchanged a confused glance.

“We haven’t found one yet,” Zack confessed. “We were on a scavenger hunt looking for you.”

Slowly, Vincent rose to his feet. The motion was fluid, liquid, as if he were jointed at more places than hip, knee, and ankle.

“The laboratory is at the end of the corridor. If you like, I’ll show you the way.”

Sephiroth did not answer. Instead, he turned and shone the flashlight’s beam on his two subordinates, both of them exhausted. With a sigh, he shook his head.

“Not tonight. My men need rest.”

Vincent inclined his head in assent. “Very well.” With a decided air of defeat, he turned back toward his coffin.

“You will come with us.”

Everyone blinked at this, surprised at the general’s command.

“Sir?” Zack asked.

“I am _not_ going to leave him down here,” Sephiroth said sternly. “Come on, all of you. Upstairs. We have to investigate a faulty makou reactor in the morning, and I for one would like some sleep.”

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not aware of [this picture](http://www.zerochan.net/1424891#full) when I wrote this.


	4. Nightmare's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent and Sephiroth discuss things a bit further.

The trek back to the village was remarkably short. Cloud made it as far as the outskirts of town before he collapsed completely. Tired as he was, Zack stooped to collect him, but Vincent beat him to it. Although as tall as the general, he was half as wide. Both Zack and Cloud were shorter, but more solidly built. Despite this, Vincent hefted Cloud onto his shoulders piggy-back and carried him the rest of the way as if he were no heavier than a ruck sack.

The village clock struck 4am. They had spent roughly two hours inside the mansion, though it felt as if it had been much longer. Three beds and five men made for some awkward arithmetic, especially since one was occupied by the other guard. Sephiroth could have ordered Zack and Cloud to share, but they needed what little rest the remaining night could offer. Therefore, he had Vincent deposit Cloud on one of the vacant beds, and ordered Zack to lie down on the other before he knocked him out with a sleeping spell. His second-in-command obeyed without further protest and collapsed onto the mattress where he promptly began to snore. That left the general alone with the experiment. They regarded one another awkwardly. There was a long wooden bench with a homespun cushion against the opposite wall. It was not nearly long enough to accommodate either of them, but it might offer a few hours of semi-comfort while dozing upright. Sephiroth gestured to the article of furniture and opened his mouth to speak, but Vincent shook his head.

“I have slept long enough,” he said. “I am going outside. I want to be sure the stars are still there.”

Sephiroth could not argue with that. He watched silently as Vincent stole out the window, a living shadow in the darkness. With a sigh, Sephiroth unhooked Masamune from her place on his back and sat down on the bench, laying her across his knees. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his head back against the wall and tried to sleep. He might as well have climbed to the moon on a ladder of stars. His mind was too full.

No one, not even Professor Gast, had ever told him much of anything regarding his parentage. To be fair, he did not remember ever asking him. As a small child, a rotation of nurses had seen to his needs. When he was old enough to see to himself, they had disappeared. After that, it had been tutors of all sorts: academic, combative, weapons, and so forth. He’d been taught everything one destined for a life in the military ought to know. He’d been bred for this, it was his purpose in life.

But who had bred him?

Other people had families; mothers and fathers, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Cloud had a mother yet living who dwelt just across the square. Zack had parents across the sea in Gongaga. Everyone came from someone. Surely he, Sephiroth, had not sprung from one of the Professor’s petri dishes? He hoped not. The subject had only really been addressed in any kind of detail during that great and excruciatingly awkward milestone of adolescence known by many as ‘The Talk’. Sephiroth had not had a talk so much as he’d had a book shoved at him with the instructions that he was to ask Professor Hojo if he had any questions later. He’d had questions, certainly, though not the usual sort a thirteen-year-old boy might come up with. One of the many points burned into his brain at the time was that children came from parents. Where then, were his?

“Your mother is dead,” Professor Hojo had told him. “She died giving birth to you.”

When he’d asked for a name, he was told only “Jenova”. As for his father… Normally the Professor had an answer for everything, but this time, it had taken him several minutes to respond.

“He is of no consequence,” the Professor had said eventually. “He was an intelligent man. He knew many things, yet for all that, it must be said that perhaps he was not very wise.”

The Professor had fixed him in his narrow stare, the lenses of his glasses flashing opaquely in the harsh fluorescent light. “See that you do not repeat his mistakes.”

What that was supposed to mean Sephiroth had no idea, and still didn’t. At the time, he had assumed it was because his father had let his mother die in childbirth, something that surely could have been prevented. For the longest time, he had not thought about it. Now, however, his brain refused to consider anything else. With a sigh, Sephiroth stood. He was tired, yes, but it was mental exhaustion. He did not need physical rest the way the other men did. Even Zack, SOLDIER 1st Class, needed _some_ sleep. Setting Masamune on the bench, he crossed the floor to the window and leaned out. Craning his neck, he could just make out the flutter of Vincent’s cape beyond the upturn of the rain gutters. Edging out of the window proved to be the hardest part. Once balanced on its wide sill, it was no great effort to climb up onto the steeply pitched roof.

Vincent seemed surprised to see him, looking away from the eastern horizon at the approach of a second person. Here in the mountains, one of the highest elevations on the planet, the stars were as close as a creature bound to earth could ever get to them. Although Sephiroth knew full well the constellations were cosmic flames burning hundreds of thousands of millions of miles away, it seemed to him that if he stretched out his hand, he might be able to touch one.

“All present and accounted for?” he asked, deadpan, remembering Vincent’s earlier remark. Despite his lower face being hidden by the collar of his cloak, Vincent’s smile did not go undetected as his cheeks rose slightly and small crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes.

“As near as I can tell,” he replied, equally flat. 

For a long moment they sat quietly, contemplating the night sky.

“I saw you once,” Vincent remarked, his low voice sliding in under the silence. “You could not have been more than five or six. I don’t think you saw me.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Where?”

“In the lab. I was in one of the rear areas, and the door was ajar.”

“Why do you think it was me?”

With his right hand, Vincent reached and flicked the end of Sephiroth’s bangs with one finger. The general flinched slightly, unused to having people not wearing white lab coats poking into his personal space.

“This. Even then, your hair was this color. That and your eyes.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Why were you there?”

A shadow passed over Vincent’s face. “I was...having some work done,” was his cryptic answer. Sephiroth got the impression he was not referring to makou injections.

“Did Professor Hojo do that?” Sephiroth nodded at Vincent’s left arm, “or is it armor?”

“Hojo.”

The silence hung heavily between them. There were a hundred questions Sephiroth wanted to ask, but it seemed cruel to do so. Vincent had been the subject of something horrible and gruesome, of that Sephiroth had no doubt. It would be worse than rude to probe such a wound, and so he held his peace. There would be other times; rather, he assumed there would be. Best to ask about something else.

“...tell me about Lucrecia?”

Behind his collar, Vincent smiled, the red glow of his eyes winking out briefly as he closed his eyes.

“She was my best friend,” he began, voice soft as the distant thrum of the night creatures. “My father mentored her as a student, and we’d known each other before then. I was happy when I was assigned to the Jenova project, knowing that we’d be working together.”

“Did you fall in love with her?” It wasn’t much of a question, the answer fairly obvious, but Sephiroth wanted to keep him talking.

Vincent dipped his head, his red gaze dropping from the stars to the roof tiles. “Yes.”

Sephiroth said nothing, afraid any interruption would cut off the meager flow of words.

“Yes, I fell in love with her,” Vincent continued at last. “I had hoped we might become more than friends but...it didn’t work out that way.”

Vincent seemed to be struggling for words, or perhaps for phrasing. Perhaps a redirect was in order.

“What was the Jenova project?”

“Professor Gast was fascinated by the legend of the Cetra,” Vincent explained, his tongue having loosened now that they’d side-tracked to a less fraught subject. “A fossil had been found farther north, and had been transported as far south as Nibelheim where it could be examined but still be kept frozen. They called it ‘Jenova’, assuming it was the remains of one of the Cetra. Shinra thought the creature they’d unearthed would provide them with knowledge concerning the fabled Promised Land.”

“But it didn’t turn out that way.”

Vincent shook his head. “No. Far from it.”

“What happened?”

Turning, Vincent looked at him, fixing him in place with his red eyes. The expression there was too complicated to read: deep sadness, yet also kindness, and perhaps, strangely, pride.

“You did.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. You see, only the Cetra knew the location of the Promised Land. It was believed they could communicate on a different level from normal human beings, similar to the way in which they were able to commune with the planet. Since there were no surviving Cetra, Shinra decided to make one. Jenova’s cells would be implanted into an unborn child, the idea being that that child would then be the first Cetra to walk the earth in many thousands of years.”

“So Jenova _is_ my mother.”

Vincent shook his head. “ _No_ ,” he said, putting rather more emphasis on the word than intended. “No, Jenova was just some dead thing they dug out of the earth. Your mother was a beautiful woman named Lucrecia. Yes, you carry some of the fossil’s genetic makeup, but you are your mother’s child, Sephiroth. Despite Shinra’s best attempts, you were born human.”

Vincent’s speech had been intended to offer consolation, but fell somewhat short of the mark. If he were perfectly honest, Sephiroth was not sure how he felt about this turn of events. To be human was to be base, inferior, worthless. That had been Professor Hojo’s view on the subject. All his life Sephiroth had been told to strive to be better, to be more than human. If he dared to show weakness, it was forcibly removed. To the best of his knowledge there was no one faster, no one stronger, no one greater than himself, and yet…

Attention returning to the present, Sephiroth looked over at Vincent crouched beside him on the ridgepole. Despite the warning that he’d been scientifically altered, Sephiroth had not been the least bit afraid of the Professor’s forgotten specimen. Aside from his height, Vincent was not physically impressive. Even with Turk training, Sephiroth did not doubt that he could engage in battle with this silent man and win. But that had been before he’d gone four rounds with a series of monsters. The first three hadn’t been that hard, just annoying, the only truly difficult thing about them was that they’d come one right after the other- that and making sure that Zack and Cloud stayed alive. It was the final form that had made him stop short, triggering a sinking feeling in his stomach that he thought he’d left behind him a lifetime ago. Not since...since… He could not remember the last time he’d gone into battle without the knowledge that he would emerge triumphant. Facing Vincent’s demon, he’d experienced the ice-cold hand of doubt squeezing his guts. He hadn’t known if he would win, but he had to try. He was not going down without a fight, and he was not going to abandon his men.

It was hard to believe all that was trapped inside Vincent’s narrow body. He might have been human at one point, but now… The Professor would probably know the exact percentage of Vincent’s humanity. It was he who had done this, after all. Perhaps Vincent had been a sort of practice run, a way to test procedures before he tried them on--

Sephiroth hacked off the train of thought as if severing it with the blade of Masamune. He did not want to think about that now. He did not want to think about the nearly twenty years he’d spent living as an experiment himself. Command had brought him freedom, and while he was still bound to Shinra, he was no longer bound to the science department- at least not in the way he had once been. Perhaps if his mother had been there…

But then, she’d gone along with it, hadn’t she?

“Was my mother the same kind of scientist?” Sephiroth asked, penetrating the silence. “Was she like the Professor?”

Vincent shook his head. “No, not at all. I don’t believe she would have done what she did if she didn’t believe it would be safe. I didn’t agree with her decision but...” He tried to smile, but it came out rather twisted. “You turned out all right.”

Sephiroth considered arguing the point, but decided in the end to let it go.

“What about Professor Hojo? Did he understand the risks?”

“Your parents were making the best of a bad situation,” Vincent said slowly, carefully choosing each word.

“Bad situation?” Sephiroth repeated. Vincent looked away, uncomfortable.

“They were not married when your mother discovered she was expecting. I think she believed in what they were trying to do, but I also know she was frightened.”

“Frightened?” Sephiroth felt his brows draw together in confusion. “Of what? 

Vincent shook his head. “Of her situation. Of Hojo. Perhaps she was even frightened of me, I don’t know. All I know is that I could not change her mind, and when I tried to speak to Hojo, he shot me.” Turning, he looked Sephiroth in the eye. “He has terrible aim.”

If that was some sort of gallows humor joke, Sephiroth did not see the humor. Vincent sighed heavily.

“Your father was not a morale man, Sephiroth. He was intelligent, I will grant him that, but it was all academic. When it came to consequences, he was extremely short-sighted.”

“Are you certain he’s my father?” Sephiroth asked. “What about you?”

Vincent blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. Couldn’t it have been you?”

Bizarrely, the older man blushed, his white skin turning nearly as red as his cloak. “No, it could not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because _nothing happened_ ,” he said, sounding rather scandalized at the idea. “Your mother and I barely even kissed. She thought of me as an older brother. She did not love me the way she loved Hojo.”

It was difficult to miss the bitterness in his voice.

“...did the Professor love my mother?” The idea of the Professor loving anyone was so alien he couldn’t not ask.

“He did not protect her,” was the evasive answer. “Then again, neither did I. I let the one I loved, the one I respected most, face the worst alone.”

Sephiroth was not sure if ‘the worst’ was supposed to mean an unplanned pregnancy, Hojo’s advances, or the Jenova project in general.

“That was my great sin,” he went on. “I could not save her, and I could not protect you.”

It puzzled Sephiroth to think that he would ever need protecting. Then again, he would have been an infant at the time. Children that small would need someone to look after them, to keep them safe. What would have happened, he wondered, had this man not been locked away?

The stars had begun to swirl around his head, dancing in glittering patterns in the blue-black of the night sky. At once Sephiroth started, head jerking up. Someone had grabbed his arm. He went to jerk free, prepared to fight, and then remembered where he was. Looking down confirmed that it was Vincent’s gloved hand that held onto his arm near the elbow.

“Go ahead,” Vincent told him quietly. “I won’t let you fall.”

Sephiroth seriously considered taking him up on the offer, but dawn was already beginning to chase away the stars, replacing their white light with gold. Vincent smiled and closed his eyes as the first fingers of light stretched out to warm the cold mountain air.

“I’ve been dreaming so long,” he murmured, “I’d begun to fear I’d never wake up.”

He should go down and rouse the troops. He should collect Masamune and be sure that breakfast was being prepared while his men dressed. He should say something to the head of the SOLDIER program when they returned. The one guard had proved utterly useless, but Strife showed amazing promise for having washed out once already. His only faults were that he was not very strong, and rather inexperienced, but time would cure both these things. There was potential there, something to work with. Sephiroth would see that the boy had a second chance. But all that could wait just a few more minutes.

Sunrise to Sephiroth had always been the hour at which one got up, and little more. This morning, however, would be different. Perhaps all other mornings would be different from now on. Sitting on the roof, he squinted into the horizon with Vincent, watching as the sun rose red and orange over the dark gray spires of the Nibel mountains.

“Your nightmare is over,” he remarked. Vincent turned to him and smiled a little behind his collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to various and sundry fan-compiled timelines, Vincent did not get locked in the basement until Sephiroth was about six years old. Until then, he was presumably being poked and prodded by Hojo in the Shinra science department. What fun. :P


	5. Makou Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting back to the original mission, the boys- and Tifa- investigate the going's on at the Nibelheim makou reactor. Here there be monsters, but not the kind they anticipated.

“ _You._ ” Sephiroth narrowed his eyes at the guard who was supposed to have stood dogwatch. The infantryman quailed under the general’s disapproving stare.

“Undress,” he ordered. The infantryman blinked.

“Sir?”

“You will not be coming with us,” Sephiroth went on. “Having stood watch half the night, you will be much too tired.”

The infantryman flushed crimson. Sephiroth narrowed his eyes and brought his brows low in a scowl.

“ _Strip._ ”

Sephiroth waited, watching until the man stood trembling in his underclothes. Taking the neatly folded uniform from the bed, he turned and strode out the door.

“Goodnight.”

He left the mortified soldier in the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. Zack and Cloud were already downstairs putting a dent in Nibelheim’s supply of porridge, bacon, and eggs. Vincent, not wanting to cause any undue alarm, was lurking in the bathroom.

“Here,” Sephiroth said, shoving the uniform at him. Fortunately, the inept guard was almost a half a head taller than Cloud, but as to whether or not the uniform would fit Vincent… Sephiroth eyed his lanky height and decided it might work, but it would be a very near thing. “See what you can do. You’re coming with us.”

Vincent offered an amused half-smile from behind his collar. “I’d have followed you anyway.”

“Just get dressed,” Sephiroth told him, and headed downstairs to see if Zack and Cloud had left anything for him.

\--

Sephiroth was not at all sure what to think of their...guide. For some reason a teenaged girl was not at all what he’d been expecting. Still, if she knew her business, that was all that mattered. Curiously, Strife did not take his helmet off, even though it was likely he knew the girl. Perhaps he was shy when it came to females? Either way, he hung back, standing at parade rest with the other, much taller guard. Vincent had managed well enough, opting to roll the sleeves of his uniform down the better to conceal his prosthetic. The gloves barely fit over the brazen fingers, but it was enough to gloss the image for any eye that was not looking too hard- and with the great General Sephiroth and a SOLDIER 1st Class, who would be looking at the guards?

The trek into the mountains would have to be on foot. Although the village was sequestered in a deep valley full of lush pasture land, the rocky foothills were too steep and the path too narrow for the truck. No one minded the walk, and Cloud was probably particularly glad not to have to drive. The trail wound back and forth, spiraling around the cliffs like a serpent. Sephiroth had climbed mountains before; both on foot and in a much more literal sense that involved ropes and hooks and so forth. He wasn’t winded, had barely even worked up a sweat and was easily keeping pace with the young lady who seemed to hop from rock to rock without effort or care. However, as they hiked ever higher, he could not help thinking that the incline was _steep_. Which was saying something.

The bridge just plain confounded him on a number of levels. Looking at the thing, his first thought was how stable it might be? The second was how the hell whoever had constructed the thing had managed it? Admittedly a swinging rope bridge was not the most advanced form of infrastructure, but how it had been strung across opposite ends of a canyon that had to be as deep as the Shinra building was tall baffled him. 

“Come on,” the girl told him. “This way.”

The thought entered his head a fraction of a second too late. He’d followed the girl out onto the bridge followed closely by Zack, Vincent, and Cloud. They’d reached the low-hanging center of the bridge when the rope began to creak dangerously. A heartbeat later, the ancient twists of fibre had snapped, transforming from walkway to ladder too quickly to do anything but hold on for dear life. The girl shrieked and scrambled a few steps up the remaining slats of wood. Sephiroth managed to tangle his arms in the rope railing that still held. Vincent clung largely by one hand- the black leather glove now bearing some distinctive holes, and Zack had only just managed to avoid sliding into the abyss himself. Cloud, however, had been directly on top of the point of fracture. Zack made a wild grab and managed to catch him by one hand.

“Hold on, Cloud!” Zack panted, trying in vain to haul the younger boy up by only one arm. It was too much dead weight to pull up single-handed and his grip imperfect. Before anyone had fully realized what happened, Cloud had slipped, plummeting toward the earth.

“ _CLOUD!_ ” Zack shouted, as if his voice alone would stop his descent. They watched in horror, as Cloud met the ground below. Because of the way the mountains zigzagged in switchback curves and loops, the distance from the broken bridge to the earth was not as bad as it might have been. Cloud still fell a considerable height, but he managed to land on his feet, rolling with the impact before tumbling to a halt, flat on his back.

“We have to help him!” the girl insisted, breathless; whether from alarm or exertion, Sephiroth could not tell. For the moment, he ignored her, keeping his eyes on Cloud. After an intensely anxious two minutes, Cloud peeled himself off the gravel path and waved up at them. Sephiroth released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding.

“It may sound cold, but we’ve got to press on,” Sephiroth told her. “He’s all right, and he knows these mountains himself. He’ll catch up.”

“Alright…” she said, nodding, though her tone implied anything but agreement.

“You first,” he instructed. “The rest of us will follow one at a time. I don’t want this thing collapsing any more than it already has.”

\--

Cloud had not yet caught up by the time they reached the makou reactor. Tifa, their guide, had mentioned that the ‘back way’ was rather circuitous and would take far longer than the more direct route across the hanging bridge. This in mind, Sephiroth ordered the girl to stand watch for him. She was somewhat indignant about this, but as she was not Shirna personnel, she could not enter the reactor anyway. She might as well make good use of her time while she waited.

The reactor was tall, but rather compact for what it was, tucked in between the peaks of the mountains. Why anyone would want to build a reactor in such an out-of-the way place struck him as extremely odd. Furthermore, they’d past a natural makou fountain with a thick layer of crystalline materia forming around its edges. If the mountains had enough makou for that, then the reactor must not be running at full capacity. Now that he thought about it, quite a number of the houses in Nibelheim had wood burning furnaces. He has seen and smelled the fragrant smoke as it rose from the chimneys. The town was wired for makou power, he knew that. However, very few of the citizens seemed to be using it. Perhaps the monsters had something to do with it? Speaking of which, where were they? They had encountered a few wild creatures, but nothing that was not indigenous to the area. If there were brutal monsters abroad, they had yet to meet any.

Maybe the Jenova fossil was part of the reason for the low energy production? It seemed like a strange place to store an archeological specimen. Nevertheless, the Nibelheim reactor had been built around the Jenova fossil. _Why_ Shinra had built a reactor around the thing remained a mystery. Surely such an architectural choice was inadvisable? Wouldn’t it be safer to keep such a rare piece of history stored somewhere else? Perhaps it had been a cost-cutting measure. It was the kind of thing Building Management would do. There had been a time, he was told, when no expense had been spared on the production of makou energy. Now, however, the bulk of the budget went to either Weapons Development or the Science Department. A strange and rather chilling combination now that Sephiroth thought about it. No matter, there were more pressing things to consider. 

Climbing into the heart of the reactor with Zack and Vincent right behind him, Sephiroth stopped short. For some reason, he had not expected this.

The area immediately overlooking the makou well was tired in a series of deep, ascending steps with pods arranged like seats for some grotesque opera. Sephiroth knew in his head that his heart had not stopped, that its steady rhythm had not been interrupted, but it _felt_ as if it had. Cold shock coursed through him as recognition and then an explosion of unbidden memories flooded his head.

Makou pods. They were used, sometimes, by the medical staff for SOLDIERS who were gravely wounded. An overdose of makou resulted in stasis; a benign coma that would allow a person to heal without further risk. These, however, were not the slim glass tubes that allowed for an almost 360 degree view of the injured person. These were incubation pods of an antique design; as old- or older- than Sephiroth was himself. He had not seen such antiquated contraptions since… He shook his head, not wanting _that_ playing in the back of his mind. Surely the horrid things were empty? And yet it would explain the unusual monsters…

Every fibre of his body protesting loudly, he stepped forward and peered into the tiny portal. The face behind the glass had been human once- the primary features of a man’s skull still barely discernable. Eyes, nose, and mouth lay in a fleshy mass that better resembled a creature from the bottom of the sea than anything human. Sephiroth stepped back, willing himself to be calm though he could feel the trembling in his limbs, his hands. He jumped and grabbed for Masamune as the wires sprouting from one of the pods sparked and fizzed. The pod burst, flooding the dais with sour makou, the creature inside it flopping forward like something drowned. It tried to move, the gesture slimey and primeval, before shuddering and lying still. A few seconds later it began to oxidize and shrivel; undeniably dead.

“The _fuck_?” Zack asked of no one in particular. Sephiroth envied the young SOLDIER the horrified look on his face. Even behind the helmet and visor, Vincent didn’t look as if the discovery was sitting very well with him either. Claw gripping the doorway so hard he’d left a dent, he stood on the threshold, his long body shaking like a tree in a strong wind. Swallowing hard, Sephiroth tried to find a firm place in his mind. Focus on the task at hand. The mission before all else. Determine what is causing the monsters.

 _This_ , he thought. Although none of the blighted creatures in these artificial wombs were like to wreak violence on anyone, he had no doubt that the source of the monsters was inside the reactor somewhere. 

“What _are_ they?”

Zack was still staring at the creature as it lay decaying, slowly turning to rot before their eyes.

“They were people once,” Sephiroth told him, voice flat and toneless in his own ears. “Men, women…”

“But _why_?” Zack’s voice was small and pleading. “What for?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “I have no idea. Whatever the Science Department was trying to do, it didn’t work.”

He contemplated the horrid things for a moment. Inside each one was a dying fetus; a creature unable to survive outside its womb of steel and plastic. Like so many eggs they stood arrayed, waiting only to be broken.

_Broken._

“Cut them down,” Sephiroth ordered, raising Masamune.

“Sir?” Zack blinked.

“Cut them all down. Shove the pods into the makou well. These things are dead, we may as well give them a decent burial.” Turning, he noticed Vincent still frozen in the doorway.

“Valentine, you stay there. Stand guard.”

Shaking himself, Vincent gave a jerky nod and relaxed ever so slightly.

Brandishing his buster sword, Zack brought it down on the thick coils of wires and cables that snaked out from the wall like the tentacles of some sort of mutant octopus. Sparks flew, steam gushed, but no more of the pods burst, for which Sephiroth was thankful. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he thought he heard a distant scream with every severed umbilical.

“This is sick,” Zack muttered, unable to keep from talking in his agitation, “fucking _sick_! Who _does_ this to people? I mean...like...did they sign up for this? Did they volunteer? Did they know this is what would happen?”

“I hope so, and I hope not,” Sephiroth muttered, slicing another knot of cables and wincing at the shriek that seemed to echo only inside his head. With one foot, he shoved the pod, sending it tumbling down the stairs and into the makou well with a distant splash.

“Should we be worried about the reactor?” Zack asked, once all the pods had been detached and thrown into pit. “Will the pods gum up the works?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “The organic material will dissolve. The pods themselves are too big to become tangled in any of the intake tubes. They’ll be fine.”

And even it they wouldn’t, he found he didn’t care. The screams had died away, along with what had been inside the pods. That did not mean sound was not still echoing inside his head. Turning to face the rear of the chamber, he looked up at the word spelled out around the doorframe.

_Jenova…_

His mother’s name, if the Professor was to believed. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. The deafening white noise buzzing inside his head was making it hard to think. Vincent had said that his mother was a woman, a human woman named Lucrecia, and that Jenova was a fossil dug out of the ice.

 _Come_ , a word penetrated the noise. _Come to us. Come and see._

Yes, he would go in and see for himself. If Jenova was truly his mother, perhaps there would be similarities between them, a family resemblance as it were. Turning, he made to beckon to Zack, but the boy had retreated back down the stairs toward the doorway. Vincent had dropped to his knees. Helmet fallen to the floor, his eyes glowed a solid blood red and he pressed both hands against his head, teeth gritted in pain. The voice hissed and spat like an angry feline, and Vincent dropped to all fours and howled. Sephiroth inhaled sharply, realization dawning:

_He can hear it too!_

Zack had crouched down next to the taller man, keeping a careful distance.

“Vincent? Hey. Look at me. Right here,” Zack told him, voice low and even yet with a tone of command. “Look at me.”

Vincent appeared not to hear him. Staring right through him, he heaved rapid panic breaths. His jaw worked, but Zack couldn’t tell if he was trying to speak, or simply trying to breathe.

“Zack, get him out of here!” Sephiroth snapped. “Get him out of here _now!_ ”

“On it!” Zack called without looking back. “Come on buddy, let’s go, you don’t need to see this.”

Giving as much warning as he could, Zack took Vincent by the upper arm and guided him back toward the access ladder. Once out of the makou chamber, he calmed visibly. The adrenaline left him all at once and he collapsed to the floor, legs having turned to jelly. Zack kept a hand on his shoulder as Vincent fought to collect himself.

“You’re okay,” Zack told him softly, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re okay, just breathe.”

“He can’t…” Vincent rasped, struggling to breathe. “He can’t…”

“Can’t what?” Zack prompted, trying hard to lend what stability he could.

“Sephiroth,” Vincent panted. “He can’t… can’t go in there… Jenova…”

With a stifled cry, he doubled over, curling into a ball on the walkway. The posture was better suited for one bracing for a bomb blast, and Zack was at a loss as to what to do. He’d seen a few cases of combat fatigue, but nothing this severe.

“What about Jenova?” Zack asked, crouching down next to him. “Tell me.”

\--

The inside of the Jenova chamber reminded him of a shrine. An altar of sorts was installed at the far end with an enormous figurehead framed by massive wings and wearing a crown. Instead of stone, it was constructed of riveted sheets of metal. Looking closer, Sephiroth noted that each wing, each strand of hair was actually housing or a wire, every sculptural element serving a dual purpose in what was presumably the specimen’s preservation. There was a tank somewhere behind the metal bust, but all but the base of the capsule was obscured by the effigy.

 _Come closer, our son,_ the voice sang. _Set us free. Let us see you._

There had to be a control pannel around here somewhere… Sephiroth twisted where he stood, looking for a keypad or a release switch. Ah, there it was. Set into the opposite wall near the door, he’d walked right past it, his attention entirely taken up by the statue.

_Hurry… We want to meet you, we want to look upon your face._

The control panel was not complex, consisting only of a block of buttons and a simple switch. Grasping the handle, he flipped it up. At once machinery whirred to life, the hum of electricity adding to the noise. He had expected the statue to fold away in pieces. It did, but rather than each part- bust, face, crown, wings- shifting independently, the whole thing split right down the middle into two halves. Sephiroth gaped at the mechanism, revolted for reasons he could not identify, and then past it at the creature in the tank.

It was large, larger than an average human in every dimension. The crown it wore echoed that on the statue, long wires hanging down on either side of its face rather like hair. Its shape was predominantly female, though its coloring more closely resembled the work of a kindergartner with finger paint. It had no arms that he could see, only the ragged remains of wings rising above its shoulders. A huge tube had been plugged into its belly, the red casing extending from the tank, across the floor, and through the wall before branching out to each of the six makou pods that he and Zack had destroyed.

_Look at us, our son._

Sephiroth could not disobey.

 _You have grown tall and strong,_ Jenova told him, though her lips did not move and her eyes remained closed. _Release us. Set us free. We wish to reunite with you, with our people._

“Of course, mother.” Crossing the floor to the panel, Sephiroth began testing different codes with the buttons. The numbers were more worn down on some of them than others. It only took a few minutes for the panel to beep and for more machinery to whir to life. Evidently he’d skipped a step for the glass tube of the tank slowly began to sink, sending a wash of makou cascading down over the floor. The stench hit him from a distance as the discolored green liquid flooded the chamber. With both hands, he reached toward her.

The creature opened one glowing eye and smiled.

\--

Vincent had not uncoiled even a little bit. Like a spring wound too tight, he huddled trembling on the floor, both hands pressed to his head. Unsure what else to do, Zack knelt beside him, one arm around him, the other gripping the pommel of his Buster sword. Something didn’t seem right. Trouble nagged at him like an itch between his shoulderblades, but he couldn’t very well leave a fallen comrade. SOLDIERs never left a man behind.

“Just breathe, man, breathe,” Zack told him gently, trying hard to be comforting. Abruptly, Vincent froze. Zack felt it too. Like a change in the air before bad weather, or the whiff of chemicals when striking a match, it was there. Leaving a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, he stood. No enemies presented themselves, but the feeling of wrongness did not evaporate. A sharp cry of pain interrupted his search for potential threats and he whipped around just in time to see Vincent morph from man to beast, his shriek of pain turning to a howl of rage mid way.

The beast turned on him and snarled. Standing on its hind legs, it’s forelegs oddly sapien, the thing stood head and shoulders over him. With a roar it charged, plowing into Zack with the force of a speeding truck, knocking him off the narrow walkway. He barely had time to make a wild grab for the railing, one hand still clutching his Buster sword.

“VINCENT!” he screamed as the beast raced past, lumbering on all fours. “VINCENT, NO! SIT! STAY!”

Cursing to himself, Zack managed to swing the sword up onto the platform before pulling himself up. Scrambling to his feet, he raced after the beast. It had made a beeline for the Jenova chamber. Slipping and sliding on the spilled makou, Zack tripped his way up the stairs in time to see the creature pounce.

Sephiroth stood with his back to the door, weapon sheathed, both arms extended toward the...thing...in the open tank. The beast lunged, closing its jaws around the general’s sword arm.

“VINCENT, DOWN!” Zack shouted, hurrying forward, boots splashing. “DOWN, BOY! DROP IT!”

The beast did not listen. Sephiroth’s arm clamped between its teeth, it dragged him across the floor. It was the first time in a long time that Sephiroth had ever been caught off guard, much less taken a hit. Completely blindsided, his first instinct was to reach for Masamune, but with his sword arm pinned, the pommel was out of reach. He beat the wet snout, tried to jab at the eyes protected by the long horns.

 _KILL IT!_ his mother screamed inside his head. _KILL IT, THE FOUL BEAST! KILL IT!_

Kicking, gouging, punching his attacker, Sephiroth tried to free himself, but it was no use. The beast drew him slowly closer and closer to the door, growling all the while. Zack rushed forward, intent on helping- how, exactly, he had not yet figured out- with Buster sword raised.

 _KILL THEM!_ Her voice was like nails on a blackboard, the sound piercing with rage and fear. _THEY MEAN TO KILL US! DO NOT LET THEM!_

All thoughts of Zack and Vincent forced from his mind, Sephiroth began to chant. His free hand had always been the one he preferred for magic. Zack skidded to a halt, noticing the telltale flicker of light as energy circled Sephiroth’s gloved fist. Knowing Sephiroth, that was no level one spell, either. Flipping the blade in his hands so that the blunt end faced out, he raced forward and dropped to one knee, skidding across the wet floor. The flat of the blade connected with the side of the beast’s skull with a heavy thud. The creature seemed little more than fazed, absorbing the blow as if it were no more than a pat on the head. It did, however, let go of Sephiroth’s arm.

At once the general sprang to his feet, tossing the spell at the beast as though it were a grenade. The creature sprang aside, flames licking its fur. Behind him, the creature in the tank screamed with a voice that even Zack could hear.

“Mother!” Sephiroth cried out in dismay. In his eagerness to burn the animal that had attacked him, he’d instead hit what the beast had been standing in front of only a moment before: Jenova.

 _IT BURNS!_ she shrieked. The flames had not actually touched her, but the housing and glass were badly scorched. _IT WILL KILL US! KILL THEM KILL THEM!_

Drawing Masamune, Sephiroth shifted to a ready stance, blade pointed at the beast. It barked at him. Fangs bared and hackles raised, it circled to once again stand between the general and the specimen.

Zack, having regained his footing a short distance away, just stood there, confused, wondering if he ought to intervene or not?

The thing in the tank was looking at him.

“What the crap?” It didn’t seem too happy.

Sloshing and splashing drew his attention and he turned.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me…”

The creatures they’d dumped into the makou well moments ago were lumbering towards him. How they’d escaped their pods and climbed up the sheer metal walls of the reactor he did not know, and did not care to find out. 

“Sephiroth!” he called over his shoulder, not daring to turn his back on the things. They had all been male once, to look at them, which made him feel slightly less guilty. SOLDIERS were supposed to win every battle they fought, but he always felt a little guilty when it came to fighting girls. Well, they’d killed these things once already, they could do it again. Sephiroth, however, seemed to be ignoring him. Not waiting for further orders, Zack rushed forward, sword raised, and started hacking away.

For zombies, the things were cursedly fast, darting around him in the ankle-deep makou like too-large insects. There were only five of the original six; one of them having died once exposed to air. Suddenly, it dawned on him what had happened. They’d chucked the creatures- pod and all- into the makou well. They’d had time to revive in fresh makou and so had avoided wasting away like the corpses they were. Unwilling to risk accidentally healing one of the things, Zack held his potions in reserve and kept hacking away. Fighting alone, there wasn’t time to chant the words for a fire spell.

There was a roar, and rush of wind as something barreled past him. Zack blinked, realizing Vincent had plowed into the creatures, knocking several of them onto their backs with a splash. Turning briefly to Zack, he gave a plaintive whine and then lunged to tear the throat out of one of the zombies. Zack blinked at the rather human behaviour, and then it clicked. Right. Sephiroth.

Backing away from the battle- Vincent seemed to have things well in hand- paw?- something- Zack sloshed to where the general stood face-to-face with the...thing. The creature- Jenova- was smiling down at Sephiroth, but Zack would never had dubbed the expression ‘maternal’. Weren’t fossils supposed to be the dead, calcified remains of something that had lived hundred of thousands of years ago? This chick- despite being blue and missing some limbs- looked rather too alive for his taste. Looking over Sephiroth’s head, the feral smile darkened into a scowl.

_Kill it._

Zack blinked, the words clear in his ears though the creature’s lips had not moved. Turning to face him, Sephiroth held up Masamune to duel. His eyes, like Vincent’s, glowed bright and solid; a vibrant green instead of red. At once, Sephiroth lunged at him, bringing the sword down hard. Zack only narrowly managed to block it with his own blade, arms shivering under the weight of the blow.

“You will not harm my mother,” the general growled, taking another swing. This time Zack dodged, and tried to return the attack.

“That _thing_ ain’t your mother,” Zack shot back. “It’s like the man in the coffin said. It’s some creepy thing they dug out of the ice.”

“LIES!”

Zack did not manage to get out of the way in time, a red-hot slice of pain stinging across one arm. He barely noticed. Sephiroth’s outburst had absorbed all his attention. The word had been shouted in two voices at once: Sephiroth’s and Jenova’s.

 _Aw fuck,_ Zack thought.

He didn’t have time to ponder the matter further, only barely blocking another swing from Sephiroth.

“I’ll kill anyone who threatens her!” the general shouted, eyes luminous in the dim chamber. “No one will ever separate us again! No one!”

It was not for nothing that Sephiroth had become a war hero at fifteen, a commanding officer at seventeen, a general at twenty. He had come by his reputation honestly. Every word of every story, no matter how far-fetched it seemed, was true. No one could stand against him; a man designed to fight, to be as lethal a weapon as the rifles the troops carried. Zack knew for a fact that he would not win; could not win. It was a foregone conclusion that he would lose this duel. However, he didn’t need to win. All he needed was to buy time. This in mind, it did not hurt as much as it might have when Sephiroth knocked him to the ground. Flat on his back, weapon spinning out of reach across the floor, Zack looked up at the man he had admired for so long.

“I will _kill_ you,” Sephiroth told him, his earlier raging reduced to a dangerous whisper. “You and anyone else who would take her from me.”

He raised Masamune high above his head, and Zack braced himself for the sharp bite of the sword’s point through his chest.

A dual scream pierced the air, and Masamune fell- not in a swift arc through Zack’s flesh- but clattering to the wet floor. Sephiroth clutched his head and fell to his knees, the neon glow of his eyes fading to nothing. Zack scrambled to catch him, only just managing to intercept before his commander collapsed. Instinctively, Zack hugged him close and drew a shaky breath. That had been _entirely_ too close.

At the doorway, Tifa and Vincent were finishing off the last of the makou zombies. At the other end of the room stood Cloud, soaked to the knees in makou, Buster sword in one hand, and the creature’s head in the other. Jenova’s body lay limp and trembling, much like the monster that had prematurely escaped its’ pod. With any luck, the fossil would wither away as well.

“Good job, Cloudy,” Zack told him, only slightly breathless. “You too, Toots.”

“My name,” the girl told him archly, “is _Tifa_.”

“That too. Good job.”

Vincent- still in beast form- lumbered up and snuffed at Sephiroth’s face. The strangeness of it all struck Zack at that moment- not the zombies, the creepy living fossil, or even the shape-shifting vampire. Instead, it was him holding the unconscious Great Sephiroth’s head up out of the three inches of fouled and sour makou that covered the floor that felt like an unforgivable breach in reality.

“Is he okay?” Cloud asked, still dragging the grisly Medusa’s head in one hand. Vincent growled at it.

“Sorry,” Cloud told him, and backed away.

Giving a small whine, Vincent sniffed at Sephiroth’s face and then delicately licked his cheek. The process was repeated until the general grimaced in pain and blinked eyes that had reverted to their usual makou-green.

“You alright, sir?”

Sephiroth did not answer right away, too busy taking in the scene around him. Vincent’s tail began to wag. Zack bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“What in _hells_?” was all the general could manage. Then his eyes fell on Jenova’s severed head, still dangling from Cloud’s fist. At once his entire body stiffened and he jerked upright.

“You cut her head off,” he remarked rather blankly.

“You were fighting Zack,” Cloud countered. “You were going to kill him.”

Sephiroth was quiet, evidently replaying events in his mind.

“Vincent was trying to keep you away from Jenova,” Zack said, realization dawning. “The whole time he was between you and the tank. He wasn’t attacking you, he was trying to drag you away!”

Vincent gave a strangely puppyish-sounding yap of approval.

“She told me to kill you…” the general’s words were soft, as if he were speaking only to himself. “She wanted me to kill you...all of you…” Shivering, he got to his feet.

“Cloud, throw that thing back in the tank,” he ordered, pointing at Jenova’s head. Cloud tossed it back into what remained of the scorched housing, glad to be rid of it. “Everyone out. Zack…” he hesitated briefly, wishing he did not have to make this demand. “I think you’d better bring up the rear.”

Zack, however, simply grinned and saluted. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Vincent, now that Sephiroth was himself again, had waded over to Jenova’s tank. A steady rumbling growl came from his throat as he sniffed the creature’s corpse.

“Vincent, it’s dead. Extra-dead. Leave it.” Zack told him.

Vincent, however, did not seem convinced. He barked and snarled at the severed head and body, evidently unwilling to leave things as they were. For a long moment, Sephiroth stood silent, watching Vincent and his obvious dislike of the creature.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Stand back.”

At once Vincent padded over to stand beside Sephiroth. Even on all fours, he was more than waist-high to the general. Raising his hand, Sephiroth repeated the spell he’d cast earlier. This time, however, the massive ball of fire hit its intended target. A final shriek split the air as Jenova’s corpse began to smoulder. Around it, machinery began to melt and crumble. Sephiroth cried out himself, clutching his head with one hand and staggering into Zack.

“You okay, sir?”

Sephiroth shook himself. “Fine. Everyone out. _Now._ ”

The dash to the exit was an exercise in controlled panic. Cloud and Tifa raced ahead, followed closely by Vincent- still on all fours- then Sephiroth, and lastly, Zack. They made it out only just in time, flames licking at Zack’s boots as he stumbled down the stairs and onto the rocky soil of Mt. Nibel. No one stopped running. The explosion would likely cause cave-ins and roof collapses. Not until they’d safely reached the ledge of gravelly rock where Cloud had fallen, did anyone stop for breath. Behind them, a deafening boom shook the mountains.

Zack squinted against the sun and the rising column of black smoke.

“Damn,” he remarked. “I hope everyone’s chopped enough firewood.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun turning the original Nibelheim flashback sequence inside-out. I'm glad everyone got a chance to be awesome.


	6. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is some discussion of Jenova, Vincent's headmates, and a hint of backstory.  
> Also, Cloud gets his wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, I don't think much of the FF7 compilation series as a whole. There are some fun and interesting bits, but as a unit, the thing just makes me facepalm.
> 
> Do NOT get me started on the voice acting.
> 
> While I've used elements from the ridiculous official version, I've edited somewhat for this particular AU.
> 
> Hope you like it anyway. :}

“So how did you know it was the blue bitch that was causing the crazy?” Zack asked as they trekked back to town. The winding trail seemed needlessly long and serpentine, but the distance was lessened significantly by the strange silence inside Sephiroth’s head. For as long as he could remember there had always been a small amount of white noise in the background. Now he knew what it had been, and was glad it was gone. That _thing_ could not have been his mother. His mother- his _true_ mother- would not have told him to murder his men. No, he decided, they were not simply his men, they were his _friends_.

Cloud blushed and shrugged modestly. “Well, Tifa and I heard screaming loud enough to shake the hilltops. Some lady going ‘KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT A LOT!!!’ I mean, that’s kind of hard to miss and the only girl we had with us was Tifa and she was too busy yelling at me for… Well, we were talking, so it wasn’t her.”

“I wasn’t _yelling_ ,” Tifa put in, sounding annoyed. “And I wouldn’t have had to say anything if you’d just _told_ me. Sheesh.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing, filing the comment away to be addressed later.

“Anyway,” Cloud went on, “when we walked in and saw what was going on… Well, I figured if Vincent was tearing into the legions of the undead, they couldn’t be on our side. I lost my sword when I fell, so I didn’t have anything to fight with. The screaming was so loud we could hardly hear ourselves think- “KILL IT KILL THEM ALL THEY SEEK TO DESTROY US SAVE US OUR SON’ blah blah blah. Then I saw you fighting the general and it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together.”

“And?” Zack asked eagerly.

“I saw the general disarm you and I couldn’t just stand there. I started running, grabbed the sword, and just kept going. I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to lift it, to be honest.”

“Buster swords aren’t as heavy as they look,” Zack pointed out.

“Well, it wasn’t no feather duster,” Cloud retorted, “but I got it, and put the momentum behind it, and just took a swing.”

“Took a swing!” Zack crowed, laughing. “Dude, you put a medieval executioner to shame! That was one of the most beautiful backhands I’ve ever seen! Like a T-ball. _Slice!_ Nothin’ prettier!”

Catching Sephiroth’s eye, however, Zack quickly fell silent. Sephiroth waved his nerves away with one hand.

“You chose to behead Jenova rather than engage me,” he commented. Cloud shrugged.

“I can’t take you in a fight. No one can.”

“I don’t know,” Sephiroth said, allowing himself a small smile. “Zack came pretty close. I’m glad I didn’t actually hurt anyone.”

Zack, amazingly, blushed around a beaming smile. High praise indeed. “Don’t sweat it, sir. There was some serious weirdness going on back there. At least now we know what was behind the monsters.”

“I’m not so sure there were any,” Sephiroth mused. “We didn’t encounter anything that wasn’t native until after we got inside the reactor.”

“You know, you’re right,” Zack agreed.

“Then why’d corporate send us out here?” Cloud wanted to know.

Mindful of Tifa still walking at the head of the group, Sephiroth did not answer right away.

“Shinra sent us to find out what was causing the appearance of brutal monsters,” he said at last, “and we did, but I’m not sure that we found what they intended.”

\--

Back in town, real life resumed as if nothing had happened. Coils of gray-white smoke rose from the many chimneys as if the citizens of Nibelheim had never heard of makou power or the Shinra Electric Power Company. Although they must have surely heard the noise of the reactor exploding, no one in town seemed to have been affected. This was really just as well in Sephiroth’s mind. Dismissing Tifa to her own home with strict instructions not to say a word of their adventures until after he’d had a chance to debrief her, Sephiroth followed his troops back inside the inn.

The proprietor shrieked and promptly ushered them all outside to the rear of the building with many a shout of “NOT ON MY CLEAN FLOOR!” In fairness, they _were_ a mess, and there were also four of them. It would take ages for everyone to get a shower and the hot water would likely be depleted after the first man. Their beleaguered hostess, however, did not stint in her hospitality, bringing them a steaming tub of hot water and instructions to remove their boots and the worst of the grime, after which they would be allowed inside. Makou was not something that could be washed off- it was soaked up by clothing and even skin, leaving a green-blue stain until it had been completely absorbed. The lot of them looked as if they’d been inexpertly tie-dyed, and Cloud confessed to feeling a bit queasy even though he’d not gone near a motor vehicle all day.

“It’ll go away after a couple hours,” Zack assured him, words half-drowned in a wash of soapy water. “It’s not as bad a full injection of pure makou.”

Sephiroth winced and nodded in sympathy; Vincent visibly cringed. Professor Hojo had never been adept with hypodermics despite so much practice. Sephiroth could only imagine what Vincent had suffered at the point of a needle. The four of them gathered around the big wooden wash tub, it suddenly occurred to him that Vincent was the only one with his shirt still on. As he’d spent most of the escapade in beast form, he was not as filthy as the rest, but it still struck Sephiroth as odd. He was also doing his best to wipe the dirt away with only his right hand. It probably wouldn’t do to get the metal of his left hand wet, but surely it would dry? Deciding it was none of his business, Sephiroth completed his own ablutions and followed the others back inside.

“You boys go on upstairs and have a proper wash and change into some clean things,” the owner of the inn commanded as if she were the matron and they unruly school children. “I’ll have tea ready when you come down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Zack told her with a mock salute. Cloud looked away, apparently hoping he would not be recognized. Vincent, as ever, was doing his best impression of a rather lanky shadow and carrying it off rather well. The landlady did not even so much as look at him.

The three beds had been made, with their extra gear neatly laid out at the foot of each one. Cloud seemed to take this in stride, but Sephiroth blinked. He was unaccustomed to having people paw through his belongings- such as they were. There was, however, something notably absent.

“Hey, where’s lazybones?” Zack asked. The other infantryman was nowhere to be seen.

“Perhaps he went in search of something else to wear,” Vincent commented, eyeing the remaining and slightly too-short uniform.

“He didn’t take your stuff, did he?” Cloud wanted to know. Vincent shook his head.

“No, he would not have found it.” Reaching, he stretched and groped the top of the antique wardrobe, pulling down a neatly folded bundle of red cloth. Sephiroth had to admit that he would not have thought of that. The other, much shorter guard- having never seen Vincent himself- would not have even considered a hiding place so far out of his own reach and had likely raided the closets of the innkeeper’s family.

“Forget about him,” Sephiroth commanded. “He deserted his post once, we should not have expected him to hold this one.”

“Isn’t desertion punishable by death?” Cloud asked, blue eyes grown rather wide. Sephiroth gave an indifferent shrug.

“Only during active conflict. At present he’d stand disciplinary measures, but only if we find him, and we have more important things to do. We’ll let him enjoy his new life as a woodcutter or whatever it is that former military does in mountain villages. Strife, you first.”

Cloud blinked as Sephiroth shoved a clean towel at him. “What? Me?”

“Yes, you. Things would have ended badly if not for your quick thinking. To the victor, the hot water.”

Cloud just stared at him, disbelieving. Sephiroth couldn’t help the smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Think of it as a commendation, you’ll get a real one once we’re back in Midgar.”

The boy continued to stare, eyes even larger.

“Go,” Sephiroth told him, giving him a light shove towards the door. “You stink.”

Finally returning to earth, Cloud hurried out the door and into the hall. Behind him, Vincent chuckled.

“Nicely done, if I may say so.”

Sephiroth shrugged. “He’s earned it.”

“Did you really mean that?” Zack asked. “About the commendation?”

“Of course. The most likely reason he washed out of SOLDIER the first time is because he lied about his age. One can’t expect a fourteen-year-old child to make the cut when he’s competing against adults that are twice his size and strength. In two more years, he’ll fit the age requirement and have a much better chance.”

“I thought he seemed kinda young,” Zack agreed. “That explains a lot. Think he’ll make it?”

“He will, if he’s trained properly. I was hoping you might assist in that.”

Zack blinked then smiled broadly. “Sure! I’ve always wanted a side-kick!”

Sephiroth suppressed a smile. “Try not to let it go to your head.”

It did not take long for Cloud to emerge- perhaps ten minutes- his unruly hair not much smoothed from being wet. Vincent automatically deferred, since he wasn’t all that dirty, allowing Zack to go next. During his absence, Sephiroth announced his plans for Cloud’s military career. The smaller boy was speechless with delight, his smile so wide that Sephiroth was half afraid his face would split. Vincent deferred once again when Zack returned, about three shades lighter. Instructing Cloud and Zack not to wait and to go down and get something to eat, Sephiroth finally took the bathroom for himself.

Vincent was not in the bedroom when he returned. Blinking at this, Sephiroth shrugged it off and went downstairs. All three were dressed in fresh uniforms and gathered around the communal dining table. Evidently Vincent had chosen to forgo a shower for the moment. He was clean enough for polite company, and so Sephiroth did not press the matter. There was an impressive heap of thick sandwiches on a platter in the middle of the table, and Sephiroth helped himself, listening to Zack and Cloud happily outline plans for training. Vincent, as ever, was quiet. His mind full, Sephiroth concentrated on his lunch, glad that his men had sense enough to talk about something unrelated to the mission, if talk they must. Zack often acted like a goofball, but he was far from stupid. He could be trusted not to let anything slip.

Although he’d had no sleep, Sephiroth was not physically tired. His brain was beginning to ache, but that was more from consternation than exertion. Too many things did not add up. He might ask Vincent, but did not want to do so where the innkeeper or any of the other locals might hear. There had also been mention of a laboratory in the Shinra mansion basement. Perhaps there were other things down there that Professor Hojo had left behind?

“Now what?” Cloud asked around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Train of thought broken, Sephiroth looked up from his plate at the three other faces gathered around the table.

If all of them left, suspicions would be aroused. Better to leave at least one person behind, the better to act as cover- particularly if that person believed they had nothing to hide. As much as he hated to ask it, Vincent was necessary for the return trip to the mansion. He knew where the laboratory was, and probably many other secrets as well. Zack was a trusted sub-commander and his first friend, besides. To his own surprise, Sephiroth found he did not want to venture back into the haunted house without him.

“We have some time yet,” Sephiroth began. “Why don’t you go and visit your family for the rest of the day?”

“Really?” the boy seemed pleased by this. “Great, thanks. My mom will flip, and now Tifa can’t be mad at me anymore!”

He inhaled the rest of his sandwich before bolting out the door. Through the window, Sephiroth watched him race across the square to a squat building with a thatched roof. What must it be like to have a mother still living? For a moment, a part of him wished he could follow along- not as the Great General Sephiroth, but as a friend and a guest, just another man in uniform. Ah well, now was not the time.

“What do you say to another adventure?” he asked his remaining troops once the innkeeper had retreated to the kitchen. Vincent looked up, caught in mid-bite, and set his sandwich down untouched. Zack simply blinked and swallowed the mouthful he’d been chewing.

“Sir?”

Vincent seemed to have an idea as to what he had in mind. “The mansion.”

Sephiroth nodded. “You mentioned there was something else I needed to see.”

“Yes, I think you might.”

“We going now?” Zack asked. “That why you sent Cloudy off?”

“It wasn’t the only reason,” Sephiroth countered, “but yes. I have some questions that need answered.”

Surprisingly, Vincent muttered: “So do I.”

\--

 

“So, um, can I ask you something?” Zack hazarded, voice unnaturally loud in the darkness. Although no one truly needed them for navigation, they’d brought two flashlights and a camp lantern. Vincent was dubious as to whether or not the electricity still worked, and had suggested they bring their own illumination. They were likely to need it once they got to the laboratory.

“About what?”

“Why’d you turn all blue and fuzzy back at the reactor?”

Sephiroth glanced back at his subordinate, surprised he’d ask such a thing. Although he’d wanted to ask himself, it hardly seemed appropriate. Vincent, however, took the question in stride.

“It’s usually triggered by injury, but every now and again it can happen from stress.”

Zack nodded in the darkness. “Yeah, I figured the whole makou-zombie thing probably wasn’t the best part of your day. What I meant was, why’d you turn into the puppy thing and not any of the other monsters?”

“Ah,” the tone implied he understood now what Zack was talking about. “Well it was either the ‘puppy thing’, as you put it- who calls himself the Gallian Beast, by the way- or Chaos. And I didn’t think letting Chaos loose would improve the situation any.”

There was a stretch of blank and perplexed silence. “...you lost me.”

“Many years ago I was...badly wounded,” Vincent began somewhat awkwardly. “I carry the blood and organs of four different beings; two of which are human, two of which are not.”

Bringing up the rear of the group, Zack’s gawk went unnoticed. “How is that even possible?”

Vincent shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. You’d have to ask Professor Hojo.”

“Dude, your head must be really crowded.”

“It is.”

“So...how do you decide who drives?”

“It’s my body,” Vincent said rather stiffly, “or rather, I hold the greatest percentage. I get to drive.”

“Except when you’re hurt badly enough, then somebody else takes over?”

“Something like that.”

“How do you decide?”

“I’m...not entirely clear on that,” Vincent admitted. “Sometimes I’ve got enough presence of mind to hand over the controls, other times I just get shoved aside. More than once I’ve simply blacked out. I don’t mind the others so much, but I don’t trust Chaos.”

“Is that why you let Gallian go after the general and not Chaos?”

Without turning around, Vincent nodded. “Chaos would have tried to destroy Jenova, and damn anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way. I couldn’t let that happen, so the lot of us held Chaos back while Gallian went to help.”

“You held him back?”

“Yes. We held him back.”

They had reached the end of the stone tunnel, a stout wooden door blocking their way forward. Holding up the camp lantern, Vincent swallowed hard. Without the high collar of his red cloak to hide the action, the sharp knot of his vocal cords bobbed, betraying the unease hidden by his otherwise military posture. Taking out the ring of keys, Sephiroth selected the correct one, and shoved the door open.

Inside, it was a marked contrast from the decaying crypt. Instead of a laboratory, the room more closely resembled a library. Sephiroth went in first, flashlight beam sweeping over the numerous shelves of books. Zack followed at his elbow, but Vincent lingered at the doorway. After a moment, he reluctantly stepped inside.

\--

_“You SHOT him!”_

_“He was going for his gun!”_

_“He was not either! He doesn’t wear a shoulder holster, he carries his pistol on his HIP! Look!”_

_There was a supremely guilty silence on Hojo’s part. “I didn’t… I really thought...”_

_“You IDIOT,” Lucrecia groaned, her voice suddenly louder. “Oh gods…”_

_Vincent, lying on the floor, too stunned to move, felt her hands going over him. His left shoulder felt as if it were on fire, a long rake of red hot pain streaking from below his ribs all the way to his collarbone. He’d flinched ever so slightly, protecting his gun arm when Hojo had drawn his own weapon. The shot had torn through his upper arm, into his chest, and out his lower back. The pain and the knowledge were abstract, academic, noted as facts more than feelings. The shot would have been messy, the damage extensive. Already his shirt and blazer were becoming saturated, the hot, sticky-slick sensation of blood washing down his torso. He was going to die right here on the floor. Killed in action. He tried to hold focus on Lucrecia’s face, but her features kept fading in and out._

_“Stay with me, Vincent,” she pleaded, one bloodied hand cupping his cheek. It was a gesture he’d used on her so many times. It felt strange to have it reversed. With his good hand, he tried to reach for her, but only managed to lift it a few inches before Lucrecia gave a stifled shriek. Blood had begun to spurt in an alarming fountain from his chest. Tearing off her lab coat, she wadded it up and pressed down._

_The cry of pain was automatic, the wave of blood up his throat equally involuntary. Gagging, he tried to cough, to breathe, but no air arrived in his starving lungs._

_“Shhh…” she told him, “I’m sorry. Just hold on.” Turned, she snapped at Hojo. “DO SOMETHING!”_

_As if slapped, he jumped and dropped to his knees at her side. Fumbling in his pocket protector, he produced a scalpel. Vincent jerked, vomiting more blood as Hojo sliced a small hole in his throat, disassembled a pen, and stuffed the hollow plastic tube in the incision he’d just made. Wordlessly, Vincent gasped, blood still gargling in his throat, but a rush of fresh, cold air filling his lungs._

_“Help me get him on the table,” Lucrecia ordered. Vincent smiled and chuckled a bit, spraying more blood onto his face. Lucy giving orders to bossy Hojo, head of the lab. She wasn’t the type to back down easily, but it wasn’t often she asserted herself so forcefully. Too bad he’d had to get shot to see it happen._

_Hojo grabbed him around the middle, Lucrecia his knees, and heaved. His shriek of pain was audible, if only as a grotesque, bubbling gurgle more befitting a blocked drain pipe. Blood cascaded down his chin._

_“I’m sorry,” Lucy told him, briefly dropping a kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry. Just stay with me, okay? Just hang in there.”_

_He did his best to nod, knowing the hole in his throat ought not to be aggravated. The pain was starting to assert itself, his head heavy and throbbing as if he’d had too much to drink._

_“Here.” The voice was Hojo’s. The snick and clip of metal met his ears, the cold air of the basement lab his skin. They’d cut his shirt and jacket away. Lucy’s fair face paled so that it was nearly white, though her expression did not waver. Somewhere off to his right, Hojo breathed a curse in Wutaian._

_“Lu, I’m sorry I… I just acted… I didn’t think…”_

_Fancy Professor Seiji Hojo, genius supreme, confessing that he hadn’t thought about something. It would have been funny if Vincent hadn’t begun to feel so light-headed. Both of them were running around, stabbing things into his right arm, hooking him to tubes and machines. Hojo was fussing with his left arm, Lucy desperately poking at his chest. It felt strange to feel her little fingers inside him, searching for the exact location of the hole the bullet had made._

_“How stable is he?” she asked._

_“Not at all,” Hojo remarked tensely. “Pulse fading, blood pressure dropping…”_

_“I can’t operate with him looking at me.”_

_“We’ll have to. We can’t sedate him. If we try, we WILL lose him.”_

_“THINK!”_

_Think he did. The lightbulb went off and Hojo ran to one of the storage cupboards, returning with a double-handful of syringes and a triumphant look._

_“Makou!” he told her, beaming. “It’s not blood, but it’s the next best thing.”_

_Lucrecia leaned and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”_

_“Don’t thank me yet,” Hojo told her, blushing slightly behind his nervous expression. The needles shoved into his skin, Vincent winced, but almost immediately relaxed. He had expected the sea-green liquid to be cold, but it was beautifully warm. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d been shivering. Keeping his eyes open had suddenly become the most difficult thing he’d ever done._

_“It’s okay,” Lucy told him, one hand stroking over his hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you…”_

_Her voice was the last thing he heard._

\--

Vincent had been correct, there was no electricity, but a candelabra on the desk and several oil lamps proved to be in serviceable use, if incredibly dusty. The soft glow of the flames made the underground room less menacing, casting a warm, golden light over the harsh surfaces. Setting his flashlight down, Sephiroth went over to a shelf and examined its contents. Some of the books were hard-bound volumes concerning anatomy and physiology and such; generic medical and scientific texts. The vast majority, however, appeared to be hand-written notebooks of varying thickness and condition. Many of them were labeled in precise, blocky, and very familiar handwriting.

 _Professor Hojo_ , Sephiroth thought. Pulling one down, he began to read.

“Are you okay, man?” Zack asked Vincent. The taller man shook his head, more as if to clear it than in response to the question.

“All the experiments for the Jenova project happened down here. Most of them were fairly mundane, right up until…” he trailed off, only the turning of pages interrupting the silence. His brazen fist clenched and unclenched as if there were a short within it. Though the safety had not been touched, he kept his flesh hand on the grip of his pistol.

“I was shot down here,” he managed at length. “They tried to save me...Hojo and Lucrecia. They did their best, but the results have proven…” he looked down at himself, at the claw that made up his left hand. “...inconclusive.”

Zack moved a bit closer, enough that if he chose, Vincent could reach out and touch him. “I dunno, you’re still standing, right?”

“I suppose…” Vincent did not seem reassured overmuch. With his flesh hand, he rubbed at his head.

“Natives getting restless?”

Face creased in pain, Vincent nodded.

“Hey, boss?” Zack called, interrupting Sephiroth’s perusal of the journal.

“What?” he snapped, annoyed.

Zack pressed on, undeterred by his commander’s tone. “Any way we could move this upstairs? Maybe even outside? I think Vin’s getting a little claustrophobic.”

Sephiroth looked up from the book and snapped it shut, noting Vincent fighting for calm. “Yes. Yes, of course. Take what you can. We can come back for the rest later.”

\--


	7. Story Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> This chapter contains non-graphic but nonetheless possible triggers regarding getting shot and attempted suicide.  
> It's okay, no one dies, but fair warning.
> 
> The boys have story time. More sources are consulted besides the scientific notebooks.  
> Also, Cloud's mum.

Vincent would never again return to the Shinra mansion, this Sephiroth promised him. Therefore, they left him outside where he could see the sun, their young guide soon coming over to sit with him until they were finished. He seemed glad of the company. With Cloud’s help and several commandeered vegetable crates, Sephiroth and Zack managed to transfer all of the journals and papers to the rear of the truck by the end of the day.

“I say we burn this pile of rock down too,” Zack voted once the laboratory was empty. He cast the manor a disdainful look.

“It’s bad form to go destroying local landmarks,” Sephiroth reminded him. “Besides, I’m not sure it’s formally property of Shinra.”

“Maybe one of the books will say,” Zack suggested, nudging one of the boxes with his boot.

Of the deed to the mansion, the journals made no mention, but there were pages upon pages of information regarding Jenova, and an ancient race known as the Cetra. The books were in order, and each took a stack for himself out to the courtyard behind the inn and began to read.

“They may as well be speaking Wutanese,” Zack complained, “I don’t understand all this sciencey technobabble.”

Vincent peered over his shoulder. “That’s Cetran, actually, so don’t feel bad. Not too many people know how to decipher that.”

“Oh, okay. I feel better now,” Zack remarked, eyeing the foreign words. “...can you read it?”

“Only a little, and please don’t ask me to speak it.”

“What are they on about, then?” Zack pointed to a line of text scribbled by hand beneath an illustration of modified stick figures who appeared to be bowing low to a much taller figure.

“Jenova...that word is some kind of honorific for royalty, ‘prince’ I think, or ‘princess’. So say….the monarch Jenova...favors? no, befriends the people. ‘People’ meaning the Cetra in this case.”

“Better than I could do,” Sephiroth commented, looking up from his own notebook. “Professors Gast and Hojo both tried to tutor me, but I was never much good at it.”

“So you’re not fluent, just conversational.” Zack’s tone was sarcastic, but the general just smiled and continued reading.

There was a lot to go through, most of it focused on the Ancients, or Cetra, an early race of humans. Thousands of years ago they had settled the planet, but died of a mysterious illness. Jenova featured prominently in the legends, but there seemed to be some debate as to whether or not Jenova was a Cetra herself.

“Sir?” the nervous syllable cut through his thoughts and Sephiroth looked up to meet Cloud’s wary expression. “I think maybe you should read these. Trade ya?”

Blinking, Sephiroth took the book from the boy and scanned the page. For a moment he forgot to breathe.

_Jenova Project Part 7: Sephiroth_

This volume was about _him_!

Easily half of the salvaged notebooks were, it turned out, though most of them were abstracts and hypothesis as to what the next generation of Cetra would be like. The important bits boiled down to this: the scientific team believed Jenova was a Cetra, and that by transplanting her cells into those of a human fetus, a lost race would no longer be extinct. On one hand, it was a noble idea to resurrect a species that no longer walked the earth. On the other, injecting the cells of a frozen creature that no one could solidly identify seemed like an incredibly reckless course of action. Sephiroth would have expected nothing less from cold, clinical Professor Hojo. Except this had not been Hojo’s idea.

It had been Professor Gast’s.

The book drifted down to rest on his lap, the golden sun and crisp air of the autumn afternoon unnoticed. He could believe such a thing from Professor Hojo, but Gast? Professor Gast was a greater man than Hojo could ever dream to be. He was smarter, wiser, more intelligent about all sorts of things that Hojo dismissed as trivial. Professor Gast had let him sit on his lap and look at the pictures of a book while he read. He had explained things to him when Hojo would not. Gast had been...had been…

What had he been?

Sephiroth had no word for it. He knew what parents were; they were the male and female who brought about children. But he did not know what it was like to have one. Was the way Gast had treated him the way a father would treat his son? If Professor Hojo was his father- and he still wasn’t completely convinced that was true- Sephiroth was pretty sure he hadn’t acted anything like one. Lucrecia- he believed now that she was his true mother, it wasn’t difficult considering the alternative- had never had a chance to be a mother in more than just a biological sense. Suddenly, for no reason he could name, he missed her. He had never known her, never seen her face, nor heard her voice, and yet he missed her. Very strange.

He missed Professor Gast too, but now the feeling had been tainted. Surely he had not intended… Sephiroth shook himself, unwilling to revisit those memories. He had not had a standard childhood. He knew that, he understood why. Most of the time, he never thought about what a “normal” childhood was like. Now, however, he envied Zack, Cloud, and even Vincent. They had memories of things like summer vacation, birthday parties, and pets. There was nothing he could add to the friendly comparison of juvenile escapades that would not bring the conversation to a screeching halt. ‘One time, when I was fifteen, I led troops into battle.’ ‘I killed a man for the first time when I was thirteen.’ ‘Yeah, I never had a pet, but the Professor once threw me in an exercise pen with a Midgar Zolom when I was twelve. He said I couldn’t keep it though, I had to kill it.’

Would Professor Gast have allowed that sort of thing if he’d stayed? Would his mother, Lucrecia? Sephiroth thought not. Surely things would have been different. He would be different. Hell, _everything_ probably would have been different.

Would it have been better?

He didn’t know.

Eventually, Cloud, Zack, and Vincent finished their stacks of books. Cloud and Zack wandered off to a bit of open field beyond the town square to practice sparring with a couple of stout sticks pilfered from the woodpile. Vincent, however, remained seated on the rough bench against the rear wall of the inn, book forgotten in his lap. He seemed a million miles away, eyes distant and attention drawn inward.

“What do you remember?” Sephiroth asked him softly.

“Not much.” He did not blink, did not even turn his head. The glassy look in his eyes had not even faded. Almost thirty years had passed for Sephiroth, but for Vincent, the memories were still fresh.

“I remember your mother crying when she told me she was pregnant. She was so frightened, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. I remember Gast and Hojo discussing her as if she were no more than one of the lab animals. I remember working up the courage to confront them, to put myself between her and the two of them. I remember getting shot. After that…” he sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he’d returned to the present. Turning, his red gaze fell on Sephiroth. “I remember thinking...I should have said something when I had the chance.”

It was Sephiroth’s turn to fall silent.

“Corporate didn’t send me here to chase monsters,” he said at last. “They had to know I would discover Jenova at the reactor. Gods know what sort of reaction I was supposed to have to that. If we hadn’t found you first…”

Would he have believed the creature was his mother? Would he have killed Zack, Cloud and Tifa? Would he have set fire to the hills and never looked back? With Jenova’s voice in his head, guiding him, goading him on, there was no telling what might have happened. All he knew was that it would have been terrible. Despite the warm sun slanting across his back, he shivered at the thought.

Was that it? Had they intended for him to seize his imagined destiny as the firstborn of a resurrected race? Was he supposed to- as Zack put it- go off the deep end?

“What were they hoping would happen?”

Vincent thought about that. “I’m not sure, but I agree, it seems as if you were set up.”

“But for what?”

“I believe you’d have to ask Hojo.”

There was a lot, apparently, that he would need to ask the Professor. However, Sephiroth doubted he would get a straight answer.

“Jenova isn’t really a Cetra, is she?”

Vincent snorted. “No. Far from it.”

Sephiroth tilted his head, curious. “How do you know.”

“Because,” Vincent tapped the side of his head with one finger, “he was there.”

“Hey guys?” Cloud’s voice cut into the silence that lingered after Vincent had spoken. “My mom wants to know if you want to come over for supper?”

\--

Celebrity was something that Sephiroth had learned to suffer. It was not something he had ever enjoyed. He did not really know how to react to people outside of the best way to incapacitate them in a fight, which was why he’d taken to keeping Zack nearby. Zack flourished among the company of others in a way that Sephiroth knew he’d never be able to manage. Autographs, photographs, screaming girls- and a few men, too- were just not something he enjoyed. Although he was nervous about how Cloud’s mother would act in the presence of the Great Sephiroth- and gods, he hated that title- curiosity more than courtesy drove him to say yes.

Shortly before the dinner hour, all of them crossed the square to Cloud’s house. Tifa was already there, more formally attired in a blue dress that seemed a bit juvenile in cut and pattern considering her age and build. Although she was close to Cloud’s age, she had an adult’s body, and the pale blue cotton sprayed with little white dots coupled with a lace collar made her look as if she were masquerading in a younger sister’s clothes. She grinned and greeted them all as if they were old friends. Cloud’s mother- a Mrs. Katherine Strife- emerged from the kitchen. At once, Sephiroth recognized Cloud’s deep blue eyes and unruly blond hair.

“Call me Kitty,” she insisted upon being introduced. “I’m not _that_ old yet.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Kit-- I mean…” Zack stammered. Mrs. Strife just laughed.

“I’ll answer to Ms. Kitty if you want. Come now, sit down, all of you. You must be hungry.”

Sephiroth had never known a time when Zack was _not_ hungry, and Cloud seemed equally bottomless as only a teenager could be. Now that he thought about it, he had never actually seen Vincent eat. Perhaps like himself, he could go without food for long periods with only minimal discomfort? Either way, Sephiroth was happy to skip the fawning and empty pleasantries and sit down to eat with the others. He and Vincent- perhaps due to their height- were seated at the head and foot of the table respectively, with Cloud and Zack on one side, and Tifa and Mrs. Strife- Ms. Kitty- on the other.

The aroma of the meal to be served had been palpable upon entering the house. Sephiroth was accustomed to the scent of cooking- indeed there were times when he preferred the rough rations cooked over an open fire to the meals served at the mess hall. Had anyone asked him what his favorite dish was, however, he would not have been able to give much of an answer. Food was food, whether it was fillet mignon or field rations. One was not superior to the other, both were good for supplying calories. There was no such thing as a picky soldier, and Sephiroth would have eaten more or less anything that was put before him from brussel sprouts, to liver, to a supposed Wutian delicacy of live mollusk-- he was still not entirely sure that one hadn’t been a sort of culinary revenge on the part of the Wutain delegation. He’d been the only one to, one; choke them down and two; not be horribly sick later.

Ms. Kitty’s culinary skills apparently went far beyond uncooked gastropods. Heaving an enormous pot onto the table, she began ladling out quantities of thick, steaming stew. It was a practical choice, considering all the hungry men around the table. Both stew and soup could be stretched to feed almost any number of people. With it were still-hot loaves of the local black bread. Zack and Cloud dug in almost immediately, the meal apparently a favorite of Cloud’s. The stew was good, he decided, much better than many things he’d eaten in recent memory. Although he had not seen Vincent lift the spoon, his bowl had somehow been emptied. He did not decline with Cloud’s mother offered him seconds.

Although the most famous man in Midgar- possibly the world- sat at her table, Ms. Kitty only directed a few polite inquiries Sephiroth’s way. He answered them dutifully- things were going very well in Midgar; yes, life in the army could be trying sometimes; he felt that Cloud would do very well so long as he continued to apply himself, etc. While he kept it hidden below the table, resting in his lap, there was a notable absence of questions concerning Vincent’s claw. True, many people were wise enough not to question such a thing, but Sephiroth had never made their acquaintance. Ms. Kitty and Tifa kept up a steady stream of conversation while the boys ate. After the first bowl of stew, Cloud paused long enough to reiterate his commendation and all the glorious deeds he had planned once he’d obtained status as a SOLDIER.

For his part, Sephiroth was content to let the conversation flow around him. Without staring at her outright, he kept a careful eye on Ms. Kitty’s behaviour. She did indeed appear to be paying special attention to her son, laying a hand on his arm now and then, refilling his bowl before he had even asked, all the while smiling at him as if he were the only person at the table. She was courteous and attentive to her guests, certainly, but Cloud had the lion’s share of her devotion. When she stood to collect the plates, she leaned and kissed his forehead, much to Cloud’s embarrassment.

Why such a gesture had made Cloud blush and cringe, Sephiroth could not understand. Surely it was not untoward for a mother to kiss her son in such a way? Admittedly, Sephiroth had never been kissed by anyone that he could remember- though not from a lack of trying on the part of a few of his more ardent admirers. If his mother did that to him, he would not have blushed, of that he was certain.

He tried to picture his mother. Vincent had said she was beautiful, but had omitted the details; whether her hair had been fair or dark, short or long, the color of her eyes, and so on. He had said that he looked like her- that he had her eyes and nose. Trying to render his own face feminine was too much of a task for his imagination and he abandoned it after a few frustrated attempts. Perhaps there was a photograph of her tucked somewhere within the journals? Surely her pregnancy would have been documented for scientific purposes, even if there were not more casual images of her to be had?

Watching Ms. Kitty serve pie and cream to Cloud and the others, Sephiroth couldn’t help picturing Lucrecia as a variation on Cloud’s mother. She was, after all, the only mother he’d ever seen up close like this. His own mother would not have had Ms. Kitty’s unruly hair. Instead, it probably would have been long and straight, much like his own. The color eluded him, but brown seemed the most likely color for her hair and eyes, as it was the commonest trait for most people. Her shape also proved enigmatic. Ms. Kitty was a trim little woman, perhaps half a head shorter than her son, maybe two fingers shorter than Tifa- around 5’3” or so. Had his own mother been tall? It seemed likely, given his own height. Vincent might insist that Professor Hojo was his father, but Sephiroth could not quite believe that. Glancing down the length of the table, he observed the slender man distractedly poking at his dessert. Vincent might insist that nothing had happened between him and his beautiful Lucrecia, but Sephiroth did not quite believe that either. Anyone would be better than Professor Hojo, and Vincent would not, he decided, be a bad alternative.

Ms. Kitty served tea instead of coffee- a smokey black blend smoothed by rich cream. The conversation drifted a few minutes longer and Sephiroth realized that they ought to take their leave. Outside, the sun had set, making reflective black squares of every window. The thought of crossing the dark square to return to the cold and empty dormitory of the inn did not appeal to him at all. Had she asked, Sephiroth would have happily remained where he was. However, he still had work to do. They all did. And Vincent had hinted at further answers to the questions nagging at the back of his mind.

\--

 

“Would it be easier if I attacked you?” Vincent asked, pulling his pistol from its holster and twirling it elaborately before leveling it at Sephiroth. It had been hours since the town had gone to sleep- this included Zack and Cloud. In the open pasture before the town, general and experiment stared each other down.

“Vincent, I am _not_ using Masamune on you,” Sephiroth insisted, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest.

“A punch in the nose won’t do it,” he warned, cocking the hammer.

“What if...if we went back inside the mansion?” Sephiroth hated to suggest it, but the building was undeniably a trigger.

Vincent was very quiet as he lowered his weapon, carefully letting the hammer back. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “then it truly wouldn’t end well. He’d panic worse than I would, and Zack would get his wish. There would be nothing left of that house by morning.”

There was undoubtedly truth to that, which left them at an impasse.

“And he doesn’t want to talk? You can’t just...channel him?”

Vincent shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s all or nothing. It wouldn’t be hard to bring out one of the others, but Chaos…” He gave a heavy sigh. For a long moment he stood silent, contemplating the ground in front of him. When he looked up again, Sephiroth could feel disaster tickling like an itch between his shoulderblades.

“Stand back.”

Before Sephiroth could open his mouth to yell “Stop!” Vincent had put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to all those who participated in Shinra: Year One and Shinra: Year 25.  
> Much love, many nods, homages, and in-jokes thanks to all of you. <3


	8. Of Two Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick peek into the past.
> 
> Trauma situations call for immediate solutions, but this whole thing could have been better thought out.

_He’d stabilized, but that was about all that could really be said. The hole in his heart had been patched, though she’d had to resort to rather desperate measures. She had hoped, taken the wild gamble, that what had killed the father would heal the son. So far, it looked as if her theory- and the countless stitches- still held. Peering through the tiny window into the dim interior of the makou pod, Lucrecia rested a hand on her belly as she checked for signs of progress. Vincent floated weightlessly inside the capsule, half-curled with one arm tucked against his chest like a fetus in the womb. Her own child, sleeping inside her, must look something like this. Except- she hoped- his left arm would not be slowly turning black._

_The shot had shattered the bone just below the shoulder joint, reducing it to splinters. It had taken hours to pick the fragments out of the surrounding tissue. Evidently, they hadn’t gotten them all. Slings and casts were not necessary when the body was submerged in pure makou, and so the many stitches and sutures were clearly visible. However, despite its healing properties, necrosis had set in._

_It had looked like frostbite at first, the tips of Vincent’s fingers turning blue and then black as blood flow dried up. It had spread over his knuckles now, and was creeping up his wrist toward his elbow. At first she had hoped it was simply a side-effect of the materia implanted in his damaged heart. It had been risky, bordering on foolhardy, but it had worked. He was still alive. Mostly. It might be within acceptable parameters for Vincent to take on some of the characteristics of the creature attached to the red stone inside his chest. Chaos was said to be black as night, black as sin. She could live with Vincent having one arm covered with inky black scales so long as it kept him alive. Except- and she hated to admit it- that was not what this was. There was no infection, no inflammation, no red streaks running up and down the limb. They might have reattached it, but the tissue was already dead._

_Long arms reached around her shoulders, hugging her close. Lucrecia leaned back against the body behind her, glad to be near something warm and solid._

_“Any better?” Hojo asked._

_She shook her head. “No. What haven’t we tried?”_

_“We’ve tried everything, Lu. Antibiotics, transfusion, debridement… I don’t think we can save it. We’ve got to take his arm off while the wound is still clean. If the necrosis reaches his heart, materia or not, he’s done.”_

_Lucrecia gave a heavy sigh, both hands resting on her stomach. There wasn’t much of a bulge yet, just enough that she could no longer button her lab coat properly._

_“I know that, I just hate to do it.”_

_“You saved his life, Lu,” Hojo reminded her. “I think he’ll forgive you an arm. It’s not like he’s left-handed.”_

_“I suppose,” she said, though her tone implied otherwise. “This is my fault. I let this happen. If I hadn’t…”_

_While Hojo was all for letting the blame for this debacle pass to someone else, he didn’t want that someone to be Lucrecia. She was not the one who had pulled the trigger. Evidently the weapons shop owner had been perfectly serious when he’d said: “You only got to hit ‘em once. Don’t matter where. They ain’t gettin’ back up.” The revolver he’d bought had been large and old, recommended by the clerk for one as nearsighted as himself. It had been the first time he’d used the cursed thing. He hadn’t even realized it was loaded._

_“It’s not your fault, Lu,” he said soothingly, kissing the top of her head. “Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident. No one meant for it to happen.”_

_This had the opposite of the intended effect, for she broke down, hiding her face in both her hands._

_“I can’t bear it,” she sobbed. “His father died because of me! I can’t let him die too!”_

_That’s right, he’d forgotten Dr. Grimoire Valentine had been her mentor before she had signed on to the Jenova Project. Lu had a fascination with materia, and one of the old gods in particular. Dr. Valentine and his protegee had indeed located the beast, but at the cost of the professor’s life. That too, as he understood it, had been an accident. One could not expect to poke forces of nature like that and walk away unscathed. Lu had survived thanks to the professor’s chivalry, but she’d blamed herself for his death ever after. Holding the life of the younger of the Valentine men in her hands could not be easy._

_“He won’t die,” he said, turning her gently by the shoulders to face him. “He’s not going to die. Aside from his arm, he’s fine. We just need to take it off, Lu, and he’ll live.”_

_Reluctantly, she nodded. “Okay.”_

_\--_

_Makou stasis could last for days, depending on how long one was submerged. Vincent had been inside the pod for over a week, his body- with the exception of his arm- slowly pulling itself back together. As such, he would not need to be sedated. They could operate and return him to his artificial womb to heal without the risk of anesthesia. The extent of the damage met Lucrecia’s nose as soon as they opened the pod. The makou still running off Vincent’s bare skin did not manage to overpower the stench of dying flesh. Like that of an overripe fruit the skin of his forearm was mushy and discolored, oozing at the slightest touch. She could swear the baby squirmed inside her and she fought the urge to be sick. Clapping both hands over her mouth, she turned away while Hojo wrapped the dying limb in a towel to prevent further contamination._

_“Go get some oil of wintergreen,” he told her. “I can manage him.”_

_If by “manage”, one meant haul, drag, shove, and otherwise manhandle the Turk’s long body onto the gurney. He was so wiry, one wouldn’t think he would be this heavy. Hojo had only just gotten him settled onto the rolling cart when the sharp scent of mint stabbed through the sour-sweet odor of decay. Lucrecia placed the open bottle on a nearby countertop and donned a surgical mask._

_“Are you alright?” he asked._

_“Yes, fine,” she said with a nod. “Let’s get to work.”_

_Removing the damaged limb was expected to be a reasonably straightforward procedure. Of course, it was anything but. Clipping the sutures was no great feat, and the severed limb came away easily. Once removed, however, the overpowering stench of rotted flesh filled the room like a fog. Tearing off her mask, Lucrecia scrambled to the nearest trash can and retched. Hojo would have liked to follow her. The smell was enough to make one literally, physically gag. Holding his breath, he forced himself to examine the exposed tissue of Vincent’s shoulder. The rot has spread into the remaining muscle and bone. How far, exactly, the decay had gone he could not say. Once the dead limb had been disposed of, the atmosphere in the laboratory became considerably less pungent. Lucrecia, pale and trembling but determined, came back over and pulled on a pair of gloves._

_“Right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s try this again.”_

_Of the two of them, she was undoubtedly the better surgeon, and Hojo let her take the lead, only stepping in to scrape away the rotted flesh when the smell got to be too much for her. In the end, they had to remove the joint of the shoulder, and the associated muscle. Everything else seemed to be clean. There was enough muscle left to form a knob of sorts to protect the bone, and a nice big flap of skin to close the wound. The Turk probably wouldn’t be very happy when he woke up and discovered he was missing a limb, but he’d be alive, and he’d still have his gun hand, and Hojo felt that all things considered, the Turk had been very lucky indeed._

_The damaged tissue gone, the shoulder would first need to be sterilized before the muscle could be arranged and the skin sewed shut over it. Dousing a cotton ball in the sterilizing solution, he began to swab the area while Lucrecia prepared the needle and thread._

_A low groan permeated the silence. Across the operating table, Lucrecia and Hojo exchanged alarmed glances. The noise came again, more of whimper this time, and definitely one of pain._

_“Gods, he can’t be awake,” Hojo remarked, looking up. “He’s been in suspension for over a week!”_

_On the table, Vincent cried out again, eyelids fluttering. With his remaining hand, he reached and groped the air. Lucrecia caught it in both of hers._

_“Shhh…” she soothed, reaching to smooth back his hair. “It’s all right. Just go back to sleep.”_

_Usually that worked well with patients only partially under. If given permission to sleep, they generally submitted to the anesthetic and dropped off almost at once. However, Vincent had not been sedated when they started. He should not have needed it. He should not have woken up. Except he had. The whimper had grown to a scream. Eyes that had been brown when last they looked upon the world opened red and glowing. Lucrecia inhaled sharply and stumbled back one step before remembering herself._

_“Vincent. Vincent! Vincent, it’s all right. I know it hurts, but you need to calm down. Lie still.”_

_The heavy scars in his chest stretched dangerously as he heaved labored panic breaths, trying to obey. Frantically, Hojo fumbled for the anesthetic while Lucrecia talked Vincent down._

_“Shh… I’m sorry. I know it hurts, I know… Just lie still for me, okay? It’ll be over in a minute.”_

_At last he had the mask ready. Stepping around beside Lucrecia, Hojo lowered the rubber funnel of the mask over Vincent’s nose and mouth._

_“Count back from ten, okay? Ten, nine, eight…”_

_Almost no one made it past seven, dropping off into oblivion as the anesthesia took effect. Vincent, however, was having none of it. With his remaining hand, he tore at the mask, catching Hojo’s chin in an awkward and unintentional- yet powerful- uppercut. Hojo stumbled backward with a cry of surprise more than pain. Caught between the operating table and one of the counters, Lucrecia could only scoot back until her back was pressed against its cold metal edge as Vincent rolled off the table, landing on all fours._

_The open wound in his shoulder began to bleed almost at once, creating a long red stripe down his side. With some effort, he got to his feet, swaying unsteadily, his center of gravity off several degrees from what it had been with two arms._

_“Vincent, sit down,” Lucrecia pleaded. “Sit down, please.”_

_He stared at her as if he did not know her. The look in those red eyes was one of honest perplexity, as if he did not know who or where he was. For long moment he simply stared at her, uncomprehending._

_“Vincent, please…”_

_His nostrils twitched and flared, like an animal testing the wind. At once, the glow in his eyes increased, rending the whole of the eye a uniform blood red. Baring his teeth, he lunged at her. Lucrecia screamed and Hojo only had time to leap onto Vincent’s back, the sudden weight knocking him off balance and into the operating table. They crashed to the stone floor in a heap of stainless steel and chemicals. Vincent yelped like a dog who’d had its tail trod upon as his wounded shoulder connected with the flags. For a moment it seemed as if he’d returned to himself, and Hojo knelt to help him up. Vincent made it as far as his knees before crying out and putting his hand to his head._

_“Valentine?” Hojo asked him hesitantly, nervous about getting too close. Had the Turk attacked him, he would have understood, but to go after Lucrecia was out of character in the extreme._

_“What is it? What’s wrong?”_

_The stone in his chest gleamed red as his eyes. Two seconds too late, Hojo realized what had happened. The enormous batlike wing caught him in the middle, sending him sprawling to the floor. An inhuman roar rattled the light fixtures and sent dust and mortar tumbling from the walls. A scream- a gut-clenching mix of human and not- pierced Hojo’s eardrums. Scrambling to hands and knees, he watched as the bloody stump of Vincent’s shoulder stretched and grew, a second limb, black as the void, forcing its way out. A spike of ebony-black bone tipped the elbow, the fingers ending in scythe-like claws. Throwing back his head in a final roar exposed teeth too long and sharp for his mouth._

_For a moment Vincent- Hojo assumed it was Vincent- stood gripping the edge of the counter for support, his chest heaving with pain and exertion. The wing hung half-furled from his back, one horn curving back from his brow. Skin mottled with black, he looked as if he’d been beaten black and blue. Finally balancing his weight, he pushed away from the counter and rounded on Lucrecia._

_Whoever this was, Hojo was pretty sure it wasn’t Vincent._

_Again, the thing that had once been Vincent lunged at her, shoving the toppled exam table out of the way. The metal screeched and sparked as it skidded across the flags. Although she carried no weapon, Lucrecia was already chanting into her clasped hands, blue-white light spiraling around her fingers. The ice spell, however, did little more than slow it down. It roared at her, snarling something unintelligible._

_“Vincent please…” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry…”_

_The beast spat what sounded strangely like a curse, though the syllables bore no resemblance to words that Hojo was aware of. Rearing back, it raised its black hand to strike. Claw poised, the creature froze. Suddenly it crumpled to its knees, a disturbingly human sob escaping its throat. Turning away, it cowered on the floor, gripping its head with both hands._

_“Vincent…?” Lucrecia hazarded, daring edge away from the wall._

_No human voice was meant to make that kind of noise. Lucrecia cringed visibly at the wracking sobs. The claws of the black hand bit into Vincent’s scalp, sending thin rivulets of blood trailing down his face._

_“Here,” she began, stepping forward to help him._

_“Lu, don’t,” Hojo warned. Too late, the agonized sobs turned to a roar of fury and the creature whipped around, knocking Lucrecia to the floor._

_“LU!!!”_

_There was no more thought this time than there had been the last. Of its own accord his hand reached into his lab coat, grabbed the revolver, and pulled the trigger. The beast’s roar cut off in a gurgle of blood. For a moment it swayed where it stood, before falling heavily to the floor. Lucrecia winced and yelped at the impact, curling in on herself. Wordlessly, they watched as the wing and arm withered away into nothing, leaving Vincent as he had been-- with one noted exception. The stump of his shoulder was no longer bleeding. Without so much as thin white seam to show where the flesh had been brought together, the wound was completely healed. The same could not be said for the bullet hole in his back, freely leaking blood all over the floor._

_“You shot him!” Lucrecia shrieked, horrified._

_“He would have killed you!” Hojo countered, angry that she was angry. He’d just saved her life, a ‘thank you’ would have been-- “Gods Lu, you’re bleeding!”_

_He had thought the mess on the floor belonged to Vincent, but a bright red smear stained the fabric of her skirt._

_“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Get him back in the pod.”_

_“I will, once I’ve seen to you.”_

_“No, he needs...”_

_Her words trailed off as she slumped to the floor. Dropping to one knee, Hojo caught her before her head could connect with the stone. “I’ll help him,” he promised. “I will. But ladies first.”_

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a very rough line art [illustration](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Chaos-Vincent-01-546417152?q=gallery%3ARubyOfTrinity%2F901256&qo=5).


	9. D'jinn and Bottles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
> 
> In which Sephiroth lets the D'jinn out of the bottle- in more ways than one.

“ _NO!!!_ ” 

Automatically, Sephiroth lunged forward as Vincent’s body crumpled to the ground. His hands shook as he reached for the red-swathed heap of fabric lying in the grass. Jaw working, but no sound coming out, Sephiroth wished he had Zack’s flair for dramatic cursing. He was a soldier, he had an impressive array of expletives and four-letter words stored in his memory, but no combination seemed appropriately intense or violent enough for what Vincent had done.

Just as he laid hands on it, however, the fabric began to ripple. Sephiroth stumbled back, grabbing Masamune in the same clumsy motion. Vincent’s red cloak and black uniform morphed within the darkness, absorbing the shadows until they stood solid, a deeper black against the stars of the night sky. Chaos spread his red leather wings and roared at the heavens. Masamune already in his hand, Sephiroth sank into a ready stance, prepared to defend himself if he had to. Gradually, the roar subsided into a dark chuckle. Finally, the demon turned and looked at him. Sephiroth swallowed hard.

Paralyzed by the demon’s red stare, all he could do was look _up_ at the creature in front of him. Sephiroth had become used to always being the tallest one in the room, but Chaos towered head and shoulders over him. This was no mere being, but a force of Nature, one of the pantheon of gods who protected the planet. Except now he was tethered to a mortal body, a body that could not release him unless it was gravely wounded. In the back of his mind, Sephiroth hoped Vincent would be alright. Remembering himself, he did his best to shake off the trance and made a rather awkward obeisance.

“ _ **I’ll never understand morals,**_ ” the demon remarked in a voice of cold earth and warm decay. “ _ **So, you are the one they would have made prince.**_ ” The horn-crested head turned to the right, to the left. “ _ **Where is the queen mother?**_ ”

“My mother is dead,” Sephiroth replied, the answer rote by now. It didn’t matter to whom Chaos was referring; both Lucrecia and Jenova were gone. “The reactor exploded.”

The yellow-fanged leer turned blank for only a breath before the demon gathered his wings and swooped higher into the night sky.

“ _ **FOOLS!**_ ” the curse plummeted toward the earth with all the force and volume of a meteor. “ _ **DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CANNOT KILL AN IMMORTAL?**_ ”

For half a heart beat Sephiroth stood and stared after Chaos’ shrinking form.

“...fuck.”

It wasn’t much, but Zack would probably approve of it as a good start. Shaking himself, Sephiroth broke into a run.

\--

“Tifa!” Cloud hissed, launching another pebble at the upstairs window. “ _Tifa!_ ”

“Cloud?” came the groggy reply. A moment later the girl leaned a sleep-tousled head out of the window. Noticing the two other men standing in the yard, she immediately jerked out of her sleep stupor, fully alert. “What the heck?”

“We need you to take us back up the mountain,” Cloud told her. “Vincent lost it. It’s really bad.”

“What?” she asked, utterly confused.

“Please,” Sephiroth added. “It’s important. Jenova- that thing in the tank- it may not be completely dead.”

Tifa thought for a moment then nodded. “Let me put some pants on first.”

“Hurry!” Zack urged. “Don’t bother with makeup or brushing your hair! Just get down here!”

“I don’t even wear makeup, genius!” She called from the other side of the now vacant window. After what felt like an inordinately long time, Tifa reappeared. Surprisingly, she swung both legs over the sill and simply jumped, landing gracefully on her feet despite the two-storey drop. The outfit was only marginally more practical than the skirt she’d worn on their first expedition. The blouse and vest were the same as were the sturdy hiking boots, but the denim trousers were practically painted on. In one hand, she carried a lantern.

All of them looked up at a distant crash, the noise thundering down the mountains.

“Run,” Sephiroth told her. “We can’t stop for anything. We don’t have much time.”

\--

Run they did. Many of the tunnels and caverns either blocked or collapsed entirely, they were forced to take a variation of the route Cloud had when they’d been separated the first time. All of them- even Sephiroth- were panting by the time they reached the ruined summit where the makou reactor had stood. Chaos was still raging among the ruins.

“ _ **DESTROYER!**_ ” he bellowed, eyes burning red with fury. “ _ **WHORE OF THE SKIES! MOTHER OF PESTILENCE! I SMELL YOUR FOUL STENCH! SHOW YOURSELF**_!”

“The hell?” Zack asked no one in particular.

“ _Shut up!_ ” Sephiroth hissed. “All of you stay back. If he can’t see you, he won’t attack you. Let him focus on me, I know I can keep him busy. Watch for my signal. I may need help shutting him up.”

“Wait!” Zack called. “What’s the signal?”

Unsheathing Masamune, Sephiroth flipped his wrist, twirling her once in a wide arc before holding her ready. Zack grinned and saluted as he, Cloud, and Tifa hurried to find some defensive cover.

Using the shell of the reactor for a hiding place was out of the question. Chaos was tearing the ruins apart, digging through the mangled bits of metal with both hands.

“ _ **JENOVA!**_ ” he screamed, his voice loud enough to shake small rocks loose, sending them cascading down the mountainside in a wave of sand and dust. “ _ **JENOVAAAAA!!!**_ ”

“She isn’t here!” Sephiroth shouted once the demon’s echoes had died away. “We killed her; cut off her head and set fire to her tomb. You won’t find her here.”

The demon rounded on him, scarlet eyes wide and disbelieving.

“ _ **Killed her?**_ ” he echoed, then laughed, the sound every bit as cold and sinister as it had been the first time. There was a mocking tone, however, running underneath that had not been there before.

“ _ **You are indeed an abomination**_ ” Chaos chuckled. “ _ **Whelped by the Crisis, you wait only until you are strong enough before slaying that which spawned you.**_ ”

“That _thing_ ,” Sephiroth growled hotly, “was _not_ my mother! My mother was a human woman! Her name was Lucrecia!”

For the space of a heartbeat, the red glow in the creature’s eyes faltered, the light fading to reveal irises warm and brown. At once the demon shook his head, rubbed his brow with one clawed hand. When he opened his eyes, the bloody glare had returned.

“ _ **The vessel is of no consequence,**_ ” Chaos replied dismissively. “ _ **She had courage, I will grant her that. Jenova did not, and never will, suffer a rival. You killed your mother, do not doubt it, but Jenova lives.**_ ”

“No!” Sephiroth was not sure which part of the statement he was negating. “Jenova is dead. I saw to it myself.”

“ _ **She is a great deceiver, young abomination,**_ ” Chaos told him, the words tinged- bizarrely- with remorse. “ _ **She deceived us. All of us. The mortals, the gods...especially myself.**_ ” Noticing Sephiroth’s blank look of confusion still in place, he went on. “ _ **Chaos and entropy are as necessary as birth and growth. It is part of the cycle. The end is, after all, only the beginning again, but mortals are afraid of death, afraid of change. All things must die, but they need not remain that way. I thought she understood that… But she did not seek regeneration. She sought only to glut herself on every soul she could find.**_ ”

Turning his back on Sephiroth, he again began to dig through the debris of the reactor. After a few fruitless minutes of tossing bits of metal out of the way, he let out a roar of frustration. Raising both his hands, he swept them down again, the mangled pieces of steel and iron dissolving into rust in the blink of an eye.

“I’m telling you, she’s _dead_ ,” Sephiroth insisted. “What did the Shinra want her for anyway?”

Chaos did not look up from his task, blasting the detritus to dust seemed to be helping him work off his anger. “ _ **They thought she was one of the ancient people, my people.**_ ” The dark chuckle rose from his throat like sulfur smoke from a fissure. “ _ **They wanted her to show them the way to their deaths. And she did.**_ ”

The demon froze suddenly, wings and tail poised rigid in mid-swoop, his crested head tilted down. Stretching, Sephiroth could just make out the soft green glow of the makou well filtering up from below.

“ _ **No…**_ ”

The word was weighted with such grief, such despair. The great shoulders shook, wings trembling in sympathy. Slowly, as if pulled down by a huge weight, the demon crumbled to one knee. Throwing his head back, he screamed into the stars.

“ _ **NO!!!!!**_ ”

The very earth shook, the platform of rock jumping beneath Sephiroth’s feet as if shaken by a tremendous earthquake, forcing him to dance to keep his footing. Boulders tumbled down the cliff face; a shelf collapsing somewhere farther below with a deafening crash.

“ _ **Fools…**_ ” Turning, the demon advanced, each step making the earth tremble as if in fear. “ _ **You have no idea what you’ve done, do you.**_ ” It was not a question. “ _ **You’ve let her loose. You did not kill her, you drowned her in the very blood of the planet and now, because you YOU, every living thing on this earth WILL die.**_ ”

Sephiroth had nothing to say to this, too stunned by the pronouncement to make a reply.

“ _ **Pestilence begets pestilence,**_ ” Chaos growled, wings sending up huge clouds of dust as he propelled himself into the air. “ _ **I cannot repay her what she did to me- to us- while I am bound to this mortal shell, but I can purge what foul traces of her remain from this planet.**_ ”

The demon raised one claw, but stopped short. Instead of attacking, he put the hand to his head, eyes squinted shut as if in pain.

 _Vincent,_ Sephiroth thought. The meager warning was enough. No sooner had Chaos shaken off Vincent’s attempt to seize control than he swooped down, talons poised. Sephiroth was already diving out of the way. He could have followed it up with a swing from Masamune, but something held him back. Vincent was in there somewhere. In order to get him back, Chaos would have to be killed, but in doing so, Vincent would be hurt as well. The same hesitation that had gripped him at dusk in the field outside of town, held him now. No such scruples, however, were playing out in Chaos’ head. The demon twisted in midair, catching Sephiroth with the edge of his barbed tail, hurling Sephiroth toward the cliff edge. Cursing himself for a lackwit, Sephiroth reached and caught himself as he rolled, managing to skid to his feet, one hand braced against the earth. He did not have time to glance down at himself. The red-hot sting and warm, wet feeling told him all he needed to know; the creature had broken the skin and drawn blood, but not much more. He’d be fine. No need to waste magic on a mere scratch. Gritting his teeth, he poised Masamune and lunged.

He was not afraid for himself. Not this time. Zack and the others were out of the way, waiting to assist if needed. He could beat Chaos, he’d done it once already. That did not mean he was not afraid at all. Fear pulled at him with both hands, hampering his sword arm as he met the beast stroke for stroke, blow for blow.

 _Kill Chaos, free Vincent,_ he reminded himself over and over. _Kill Chaos, free Vincent..._

The flicker of brown eyes haunted him as he rolled to dodge another swipe from the razor-edged claws.

 _You’re stalling,_ he scolded himself. _Don’t drag this out. Finish it. NOW._

Evidently Chaos was having similar thoughts.

“ _ **ENOUGH!**_ ” he snarled, raising both claws and sweeping them down.

It was as if a wall had fallen on him. Sephiroth fell flat on his back, gasping for breath, a disquieting ticking like that of clock in the back of his head.

_Oh gods…_

His own heartbeat unnaturally loud in his ears, Sephiroth hauled himself to his feet. Chaos blinked, the red glow of his eyes briefly winking out. Evidently he had not expected that. For a moment more, he hung in the air before diving at Sephiroth. Bracing himself, Sephiroth twirled Masamune once before holding her up to intercept the open fangs rushing toward him.

“That’s it!” Zack hissed, turning to Cloud and Tifa who’d had to find other places from which to hide and observe.

“What do we do? Should we try to draw his attention?” Tifa asked.

“Hell no,” Zack shook his head. “One swipe from Chaos and we’re all dead. Like _actually_ , literally dead.”

“Okay, so what do we do?”

“We gotta let the general get a hit in…”

“He’s screwing around,” Cloud argued. “Look at him. What’s he waiting for?”

As much as he hated to admit it, Cloud was right. The fight in the basement had involved more monsters and taken half the time. The hell was Sephiroth doing?

“Fuck it, we’re ending this,” Zack decided.

“How?”

With the demon’s attention focused on Sephiroth, his back was exposed. Tifa was a bare-knuckle fighter with no experience, and Cloud’s Hardedge was probably under a rock slide somewhere, which left them only the Buster sword. To complicate matters, Chaos was delivering all his attacks at least three feet above the general’s head. None of them could reach him at that range, unless….

“Tifa, cover us. Cloud!” Zack ordered. The smaller boy snapped to attention, and Zack shoved his Buster sword into his hands. Crouching down, Zack held out both hands, fingers interlaced as if to give a leg up. Cloud just looked at him.

“What, me?”

“I’m too heavy,” Zack told him. “I’ll give you a boost. All you have to do is stick him with it. ”

Cloud chanced a glance at Sephiroth, the greatest swordsman in a thousand years, who had blood running down the side of his face, a red slash across his chest, and claw marks in his uniform. Without a word, he nodded, took a running start, stepped onto Zack’s hands, and jumped.

Mercifully, Chaos remained hovering in place. Cloud flew in a straight arc, sword poised, landing squarely on the demon’s back. The point of the sword met the leathery hide before Cloud did himself, and he bore down on it with all his weight. The demon screamed, shaking boulders loose from the surrounding hills and sending Zack and Tifa scrambling for cover. Careful not to hit Cloud, Sephiroth drove Masamune through Chaos’ middle as the demon reared back for one final attack. Any other enemy would have fallen at once, but the Lord of Entropy would not be vanquished so easily. One swoop of his enormous wings sent him up, high among the peaks of the Nibel mountains where he clawed and tore at his back, trying to dislodge Cloud. There was nothing else for Cloud to hold onto save the pommel of the Buster sword and he clung to it with both hands as the ground spiraled farther and farther away.

“ _ **TREACHERY!**_ ” Chaos raged, black blood spilling over his fangs as he screamed. “ _ **BASTARD! SPAWN OF PESTILENCE! WHELP OF DESTRUCTION! DEATH TO YOU! DEATH TO ALL YOUR MISBEGOTTEN RACE!**_ ”

“NOBODY TALKS ABOUT MY FRIENDS THAT WAY!” Cloud shouted back. Swinging on the handle of the sword, he levered himself up and over, his feet landing on the blunt edge of the blade. The sword sank deeper into the creature’s flesh, and Chaos’ final roar died away into a messy gurgle. The great wings flapped once, twice, and then vanished like smoke into the night. Cloud, still gripping the sword, hung for a brief moment in the cold, thin mountain air before gravity seized him and hurled him toward the earth.

His shrill scream echoed off the hills as Chaos’ had done moments ago. Although the sword would not slow his descent, he hung onto it as if it were the only thing standing between him and the death that awaited a thousand feet below. He started, scream cutting off into abrupt silence, as strong hands grabbed him from above. Cloud screamed a second time as he came face to grisly face with a different monster.

The creature built of spare parts gave him a gruesome, open-mouthed smile and grunted at him. Cloud tried to level the Buster sword at it, but the creature simply knocked it away. Cloud watched as the weapon fell end over end, rapidly becoming little more than a speck before it hit the ground with a distant clatter. The monster gave a deranged giggle, and Cloud tried to push it away, but it was no use. The thing had wrapped its thick arms around him, pinning Cloud’s own arms against his sides. The ground was approaching with sickening speed, Sephiroth, Zack, and Tifa’s horrified expressions clearly visible.

“hold...on…” the creature grunted.

Cloud blinked. “What did you say?”

The creature did not respond, only tightened its grip and covered Cloud’s head with one enormous hand.

The impact knocked breath from Cloud’s lungs, and sent him rolling like a log across the remains of the plateau. Immediately, Tifa ran to his side.

“Cloud! Oh my gods, _Cloud!_ ” 

The world still spinning, Cloud gladly accepted her help in stumbling to his feet. A short distance away, the creature lay smashed on the pale gray stone. Well, perhaps “smashed” was the wrong word. Its limbs had been severed and sent flying in all directions. Bizarrely, almost comically, each arm and leg was now hopping or wiggling where it had landed. The monster- head still intact- groaned where it lay, the cries that of a wounded animal. With a start, Cloud realized that was exactly what it was. Hurrying to the nearest limb, he picked it up and brought it over. The monster’s left arm did its best to help him, holding on in a way that was disconcerting to say the least. Unsure whether or not this would work, Cloud set the top of the severed limb against the shoulder joint and pushed. It popped back into place like the pieces of a plastic toy he’d had as a child. The noise the monster made at this seemed happier, but still full of pain. Looking up, Cloud noticed that each of the others had collected a limb, and were following his example. Cloud watched, caught somewhere between amusement and horror as the thing pulled itself back together. Once all the members of its body were reunited, however, the monster let out a groan of pain more agonized than before. It had survived the fall, but it was not unhurt.

Edging closer, they all looked down at it. Remarkably human eyes looked back at them, eyes as blue as Cloud’s; intelligent and full of pain, but also satisfaction.

“...thank you,” Cloud told him. With a drunken grin, the creature gave Cloud an unmistakable thumb’s up, before turning on his side and curling in on himself. The misshapen, mismatched body shivered and shrank until a long, familiar figure lay face down on the gravel.

“Mr. Valentine?” Tifa gawped, completely at a loss. “What the… I… He… How…?”

“Not now,” Zack told her, shoving her aside and dropping to his knees. Carefully, he rolled the taller man onto his back and leaned his ear to his chest.

“No heartbeat,” Zack announced. Ripping off his gloves, he pressed two fingers below Vincent’s jaw. “No pulse.” Again, he leaned close, testing for breath. “He’s not breathing. Sir?”

Kneeling down opposite Zack, he raised his hand and hurriedly muttered the incantation:

“ _Revive this one who gave their life that justice may prevail._ ”

Warm light and a shower of pristine white feathers fluttered down from the stars, dissolving into a crystalline mist as they touched Vincent’s body. Immediately, Sephiroth cast a healing spell, the strongest he knew. Usually the fallen teammate would gasp and try to sit up at this point, but Vincent lay still.

“Damn,” Zack swore. Locking one hand over the other, he began pumping Vincent’s chest.

“C’mon Vinnie, wake up,” he said tensely. “Don’t do this. Wake up. You just spent like thirty years in a box, you don’t need any more beauty sleep.”

The wisecracks cut off as Zack pinched Vincent’s nose shut and breathed into his mouth. At once, Zack went back to pumping his chest. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Again he leaned to breathe into Vincent’s mouth. Still nothing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Breathe. Behind him, Tifa whimpered and Cloud shifted uneasily. Sephiroth cast the healing spell again, not caring if it wouldn’t do any good.

“C’mon, Vince…” Zack pleaded, still pumping. “C’mon... We can’t put you back in a coffin. Not yet…”

Zack leaned to breathe into his mouth one more time when Vincent inhaled sharply. The deep, ragged breath was followed by a hacking cough and a wave of black blood. Zack lurched back only just in time, avoiding all but a spray of droplets across his shirt. Turning on his side, Vincent retched, an oily black puddle pooling among the bits of gravel.

“Shiva’s purple frosted thong!” Zack gasped, dizzy with relief. “Don’t _do_ that! You really had us goin’ there!”

Propping himself up with his metal arm, Vincent did not answer right away. Killing Chaos meant hurting Vincent to at least some degree, but he should have been trying to get up by now. Instead he just lay there, body shivering with cold or pain, possibly both. It occurred to Sephiroth that the damage suffered in order to bring forth Chaos had been self-inflicted, and that was the sort of last ditch, all-or-nothing heroics reserved for when one was well and truly backed into a corner. Why he’d done it, Sephiroth could not imagine.

“Did you…” Vincent choked, blood still trailing from his nose and mouth. “Did he tell you? Did he give you an answer?”

The glow had gone from his eyes, but one pupil seemed larger than the other, his expression vacant and dazed. Healing magic could only do so much. Vincent was as cured as he was going to get for the moment, and they still needed to get him back down the mountain.

“Yes,” Sephiroth told him quietly. He would have said ‘yes’ even if it wasn’t true. Anything to prevent another awful scene like that in the field. “Yes, we got our answer, you great bloody fool.”

Despite the insult, Sephiroth smiled and Vincent returned it drunkenly.

“Good.”

“Can you stand?”

“I think so…”

Sephiroth put a hand under one arm, Zack lifted him under the other, and together they hauled him to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, checked his balance, and then promptly collapsed as if the clothing he wore did not contain a body with bones inside it. Zack followed him to the ground almost as quickly with Sephiroth right behind.

“Dammit, Vinnie!” Zack grumbled, giving him a quick once over. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he shook his head. “Still breathing, but out cold. We’re gonna have to carry him, boss.”

Except no one, not even Sephiroth himself, was in any shape to carry an additional hundred-and-some pounds down a mountain in the dark. Everyone was dirty, exhausted, and bleeding from at least one wound. Tifa was too small by half, as was Cloud, that would leave Zack and himself to take turns carrying Vincent down the mountain. Unless…

“Cloud, Zack, find some pipe,” he instructed, pointing to the jumbled mess of metal that remained of the makou reactor. Carefully, he undid the clasps of Vincent’s cloak. “We’ll make a stretcher.”

It was not the most elegant piece of engineering, but it would suffice. They made a hammock of Vincent’s cloak, lashing it at each corner to two lengths of battered pipe. It would still be heavy work, but now the weight could be shared by two people, and not just the strongest members of the group. Scooping him off the ground, Sephiroth noted that Vincent seemed light for his size. For some reason, he’d expected him to be heavier. He’d probably rethink that assessment about halfway down the mountain. The cloak was only just long enough to accommodate Vincent’s lanky height. Laying him down on it, Sephiroth crossed the older man’s arms over his chest so that they wouldn’t flop over the sides of the improvised travois. His breathing so shallow and so slow, Sephiroth had to remind himself that Vincent wasn’t dead, only unconscious. Laid out like that, he looked like a corpse about to be processed to a funeral pyre. Without thinking about it, Sephiroth unclipped his shoulder guards and shrugged out of his coat.

“Sir?” Zack asked. Sephiroth studiously ignored his subordinate’s goggle-eyed stare and that of everyone else. Gently, he tucked the coat around Vincent’s narrow body. Standing, he slung the pieces of armor over one shoulder.

“Enough,” he said, and everyone shut their mouths with a snap. “Let’s get going.”

Tifa led the way with her camp lantern. Sephiroth and Zack took turns bearing Vincent first, Cloud bringing up the rear with Zack’s Buster Sword slung on his back. The descent was mercifully without event, all the ruckus apparently having scared the local wildlife well away from what remained of the trail. As they reached the village, however, the glow of torchlight greeted them.

“ _CLOUD!_

Mrs. Strife darted toward them, locking her son in a fierce hug though he still held the front end of the stretcher.

“Oh thank gods!” she exclaimed, dotting his face with kisses. “I was worried sick! Half the mountain came down!”

“Mom…” Cloud protested, trying to lean away. “I’m fine, really. We’re all fine!”

“Oh Tifa there you are! Your father is beside himself, I’ll have you know!” Mrs. Strife admonished.

“Wait, what happened?” Zack wanted to know.

Cloud’s mother stopped fussing over the two youngest members of the party and turned to face them as a group.

“We heard terrible sounds coming from Mt. Nibel,” she explained. “All kinds of noise loud enough to wake the dead. There must have been an avalanche higher up. It triggered a rockslide farther down. The whole Shinra mansion’s been buried.”

In the darkness, it was difficult to make out the extent of the damage, but Vincent had been right. Chaos had indeed leveled the building that had been his prison for so long.

“Good riddance,” Zack muttered.

“Ramuh’s beard! What happened to him?” Mrs. Strife was leaning over Vincent. With one hand, she smoothed his hair back from his face.

“Took a hit,” Zack told her. “Don’t worry, nothin’ serious,” he added hastily, seeing her horrified expression.

“We’d like to get him inside, Mrs. Strife,” Sephiroth told her politely.

The older woman shook herself and nodded. “Yes. Yes of course. Go on, all of you.”

Obediently, everyone trooped toward the inn.

\--

“You two get cleaned up,” Sephiroth instructed his filthy and bone-weary subordinates. “I’ll see to him.”

Leaving Zack and Cloud to sort out how they would share the wash room, Sephiroth lifted Vincent into his arms. He felt a fair bit heavier than he had at the summit, but still lighter than he should have been. Getting him up the stairs proved a bit awkward, but once he’d manouvered through the doorway into the bedroom Sephiroth realized he wasn’t at all sure what to do next. Laying Vincent on one of the beds seemed like the logical course of action. Getting his boots off was also a natural progression of thought, though the actual execution proved a bit tricky. Checking for injuries that had gone unnoticed in the dark also seemed like a good idea.

Makou-enhanced vision was useful at night, but the warm yellow light of the lamp revealed the remnants of cuts and bruises that had been hidden in the darkness. Most chilling was a raw spot about the size of a gil at Vincent’s right temple, accompanied by a spatter of dried blood. The healing spells had dealt with most of the damage, but wounds like that required time and not magic to heal.

“Idiot,” Sephiroth muttered as he undid the buttons of Vincent’s uniform. Zack would have had a better, much more creative epithet, but the single word was still appropriate. “What in hells were you thinking?”

 _Probably that you knew I couldn’t bring myself to do it,_ he answered himself. _I couldn’t run you through, so you saved me the trouble._

“Moron,” he said aloud. “You didn’t have to do--”

Thought and speech trailed away into silence. The two halves of Vincent’s shirt pushed back, for a long moment, all Sephiroth could do was stare. The weight of the last few days finally asserting itself, he gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed.

The note they’d found in the now former Shinra mansion had mentioned scientific alteration. Sephiroth had known for a while that he had not been the only human experiment in the Shinra science department. Professor Hojo had never been known for his bedside manner, and Vincent had hinted at it himself, but this…

At first he thought a multi-armed parasite had become embedded in Vincent’s chest, or perhaps some sort of exotic and deadly infection. The longer he looked, however, the harder it was to interpret the mangled knot of tissue as anything other than abused human flesh. Tendrils snaked out from his heart in vibrant red and deep blue, adulterating the natural paths of veins and arteries. Like tentacles, the chords grew thicker at their source: a well of tissue surrounding a light that sparkled white yet burned red. Beneath the translucent scar lay Vincent’s beating heart- or what was left of it. A glittering red stone in a halo of white light lay amid the half-healed walls of one of the chambers, blood rushing around it in a steady stream. Shadows danced off the surface of the stone, flickering across it like bats against the moon.

_Chaos…_

A summon materia had been implanted in his body. How or why it had been put there, Sephiroth could not begin to imagine, but it was apparently what was keeping Vincent alive. It also explained his lack of pulse and heartbeat. It was, he was forced to admit, an impressive feat of medical science, but why in the name of all gods above and below would someone _do that_ to another person?

Sephiroth- celebrated hero of the Wutai war, general of the Midgar armed forces, and twice now the victor in battle with the Lord of Entropy- was afraid to touch him. Vincent had suffered far worse damage since they’d woken him, but Sephiroth could not shake the absurd fear that if he tried to move Vincent, he might disturb the scar. He knew in his head the materia was not going to just pop out, that the grotesquely swollen blood vessels were not going to detach themselves from Vincent’s skin and try to strangle him, that getting him out of his shirt would not end in him accidentally tearing Vincent’s arm off.

Except it had.

Sephiroth stared for a moment, horror-struck, before dropping the limb in alarm. It fell to the floor with a metallic clang. Armor. No, he realized, gingerly picking it up, a prosthetic. A metal cuff, the same bronze color as the claw, was embedded in Vincent’s left shoulder. The flesh around it was almost black, though otherwise healthy, and Sephiroth wondered if the two injuries were not related? Reconnecting the arm took a few tries, but he managed it in the end, only hoping that one; it would work properly and two; that he had not caused any additional pain.

The initial shock of the scar fading, the marks of lesser injuries became apparent. For one, Sephiroth now knew why Vincent had felt so light. He was not emaciated, but he wasn’t far off. He was thin enough that the lowest few ribs showed; shallow hills and valleys in his fair skin. Almost thirty years with nothing to eat… Admittedly he’d have been in stasis, but still. Shaking himself, Sephiroth finished removing the bulkier bits of Vincent’s clothing and drew the blankets up to his shoulders. Zack and Cloud did not need to see this.

No sooner had he done this, than a soft, perfunctory knock rattled the wood of the door. Zack pushed it open a moment later.

“Everything okay?” he asked. Sephiroth nodded.

“You two take the beds. I’m going to stay up with him.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Zack told him. “Go get cleaned up. We can watch him for that long. Then we’ll go in shifts.”

It was, Sephiroth was forced to admit, a more sensible course of action.

“Don’t disturb him,” he instructed, before closing the door behind him.

\--

It had been a long time since anyone had blooded him. Most opponents never got near enough, meeting their fate at the end of Masamune’s long blade before they could even get within reach of the Great General Sephiroth. Masamune had not failed him today, the diagonal slash across his chest was not her fault. Chaos had also take a piece out of his shoulder, the wound unnoticed until Sephiroth collected his coat and marked the slashes to the sleeve. The razor claws had gone straight through the leather and bitten into the skin below. He’d also managed several other lesser nicks and bruises while engaging the demon. Yes, it had been a long time indeed.

The cut on his chest was not deep, but it would have to be healed. People would notice, would ask, and he would have to explain and he didn’t want that. He could lie, could make up a story, or simply refuse to answer, but he didn’t want that either. The Great Sephiroth was supposed to be untouchable, unbeatable, and that much of his image he wanted to keep. Muttering the incantation, he watched the green sparkle of the spell smooth the injured area as if it had never been. The claw marks in his shoulder, however, had been deeper. A basic cure spell would not be enough to heal them. However, he didn’t want to. Vincent carried more scars than anyone had a right to. Even Zack and Cloud bore marks of training accidents and childhood misadventures. Sephiroth’s body healed quickly even without the aid of magic. Although he’d had countless injuries when he was younger, no marks remained to testify. Looking in the bathroom mirror at the four red slashes cutting across his arm, Sephiroth decided he would keep them. They would fade eventually, becoming nearly uniform with the rest of his skin, but for now, he let it be. Maybe next time he would remember that he might owe the man a debt, but not the demon.

\--

Cloud was lying utterly dead to the world in the far bed, but Zack had waited up. Seated on the edge of the remaining bed, he rose and gestured for his commander to make himself comfortable.

“I didn’t do much this round,” Zack said modestly. “You first. I’ll stay up with him.”

While it was true he’d done little fighting, it had been his idea to sic Cloud on Chaos. Crazy as it had been, it was also brilliant. More tired than he was willing to admit, Sephiroth sat down on the bed and drew the covers around himself.

“‘Night, sir,” Zack told him.

Sephiroth mumbled an indistinct “goodnight” into the pillow before submitting to the soft darkness of sleep.

\--


	10. Homebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take an extremely boring road trip. Sephiroth makes some unpleasant discoveries but with a far less violent reaction. Also, we learn the value of using our Words.

The sun was not yet up when Sephiroth jerked awake, every nerve tensed and alert. He had forgotten something; something of critical importance.

“Sir?” Cloud’s voice sounded small and sleepy in the pre-dawn hours. The previous days’ events flooded his mind, a deluge of information rivaling the force of a waterfall. Chaos. Vincent. Jenova. Lucrecia. With a sigh, Sephiroth leaned back against the headboard and rubbed his face with both hands. While no longer tired, he was far from rested.

“Catch another hour or two if you want,” Sephiroth told the boy. “I’ll finish out.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

It was a little past 4AM if the bedside clock was to be believed. Normally, soldiers were rousted from bed around 5AM. Given the insanity of the last few days, however, Sephiroth felt his men had earned a bit of a lie-in. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he was still in bed. Cloud, bless him, had gone over and flopped onto the available mattress space next to Zack- who had promptly thrown an arm and a leg over him. Already snoring, Cloud did not seem to care. Sephiroth smiled, chuckling to himself, and shook his head. Glancing over at the other bed, he was met with a view of Vincent’s back, the blankets still gathered close around his shoulders.

At some point Vincent had crossed from senseless into sleep, his posture beneath the bedclothes more natural than the flat, laid-out position he’d been left in. Long body curled in a loose “S” he lay on his side, facing the wall. His metal arm was hidden, tucked as it was under the pillow. Only the fist of his right hand was visible, the hem of the blanket still caught in his long fingers and pulled close under his chin. Vincent may have spent the last thirty years in a coffin, but he’d been in makou stasis. This was the first time he’d had a chance to honestly _sleep_. If he had been plagued by nightmares then, it seemed- outwardly, anyway- that his dreams at present were peaceful. Sephiroth hoped they would stay that way.

 

He let the boys sleep until 7AM, shooing them downstairs for breakfast before attempting to wake Vincent. Shouting or shaking him by the shoulder was not likely to go over well. Sephiroth was half inclined to let him sleep until he woke up, but could not quite suppress the worry that if left by himself, Vincent would sleep for another thirty years. It was ridiculous, but there it was.

“Vincent?” he asked, keeping his tone as level as he could. “Vincent?”

No response. Carefully, he reached and touched his flesh hand. “Vincent?”

It was about the reaction Sephiroth had expected. The older man inhaled sharply, red eyes snapping open. Fabric tore as he fumbled under the pillow for a weapon that was not there. Realizing he was unarmed, he tried to fight, to kick, claw, bite, struggling frantically against Sephiroth’s grip. Grabbing him by the wrists, Sephiroth held him fast.

“Vincent, stop! It’s me!” Sephiroth grunted, trying to hold onto him. “It’s Sephiroth. _Sephiroth!_ ”

The name percolated to the part of his brain where reason still existed. Vincent quieted and shook his head, blinking deliberately a few times.

“It’s Sephiroth,” he repeated softly. “You’re safe. You’re not dreaming. It’s all right.”

Vincent looked at him, red eyes haunted and fearful, clearly unsure if what Sephiroth had told him was true. Soft yellow sunlight filtered through the windows, spreading a checkerboard of warm light across the bed. Vincent stood and stumbled toward the open window, leaning heavily on the sill. Sephiroth followed him, not wanting him to try to climb out the window in just his underclothes. Carefully, he placed a hand on his shoulder. Vincent started only slightly, turning to look at him. Without warning, Vincent raked his claw across his own forearm, leaving four bloody gashes in the pale flesh.

“What are you _doing_?!” Sephiroth demanded, grabbing the injured arm and hastily casting a low-grade healing spell.

“I had to know…” Vincent said weakly. A warped smile pulled up the corners of his mouth. His shoulders heaved and shook, a deranged chuckle escaping the malformed grin.

“I had to know,” he said again, a hysterical edge to the words.

“Know what?” Sephiroth prompted, wondering if he ought to be worried or not?

The shaky laugh collapsed into a sob. “...that I wasn’t dreaming. That it was real.”

Sephiroth had nothing to say to that. Not knowing what else to do, he put an arm around the other man’s shoulders. Vincent fell against him, still trembling. Metal arm hanging heavily at his side, he gripped Sephiroth’s shoulder with his flesh hand. Awkwardly, Sephiroth put both arms around him, hoping this was the right thing to do.

“It’s alright,” he said softly. “You’re alright.”

After a minute, Vincent took a deep, shuddering breath and swiped at his eyes with his right hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice still shaky. “I’m sorry I…”

“It’s alright,” Sephiroth assured him. “You hadn’t slept in two days and had several heavy-duty cure spells used on you in a very short amount of time.” _Not to mention a gunshot wound to the head._ “You’re probably just hungry.”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Go get cleaned up,” Sephiroth told him. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

\--

 

Sephiroth kept a deliberate eye on Vincent while he and the others ate. As he had at Cloud’s home, he kept his claw in his lap, only using his right hand to eat. 

“Orders for the day, Sir?” Zack’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“We help the citizens clean up the mess we made. Then we’re shipping out before we end up burning the place down.”

Zack smirked and went back to his toast.

As it happened, only the Shinra mansion had suffered any significant damage, and none of the locals seemed too fussed that it was gone. Vincent gave the pile of stone a wary glance and then turned his back on it. That was one ghost that would not be haunting him again. With nothing else to do, Sephiroth decided it was time they took their leave.

“I’m coming too!” Their guide, Tifa, stood waiting next to the truck with a backpack on her shoulders wearing the same ridiculous outfit she’d worn when they first arrived. Inwardly, Sephiroth sighed.

“Thinking of joining SOLDIER?” he asked her. Contrary to popular belief, women were not banned from the military, it was simply harder for females to meet the necessary physical standards for admission. One or two had made the attempt, but so far all the SOLDIERs in Shinra’s employ were male. Behind him, Zack snickered.

“Maybe,” she said loftily, “either way, I’m coming with you. If you expect me to stay here after all that, think again. You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll find a job. I just need a ride.”

She had a point. Tifa had witnessed much, and Sephiroth wasn’t sure if he could trust her to keep her mouth shut. With a shrug, he waved her toward the cab.

“Fine. You can sit up front with the driver.”

Tifa grinned and went to stow her backpack.

“She’s going to get eaten alive,” Vincent mumbled, watching her leave.

“She can hold her own,” Sephiroth told him, already directing Zack and Cloud to load the rest of the journals.

“I don’t doubt it, but what she’s wearing…”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I don’t know the first thing about fashion. So long as she’s covered, I don’t much care.”

“My point exactly,” Vincent grumbled. “Not that she’d be better off in the slacks she had on the other night.”

“ _Slacks?_ ” Zack echoed, grinning in amusement. “Now you _do_ sound like an old man.”

With a sigh, Vincent picked up the last box full of notebooks and climbed into the truck.

The crates made seating a bit cramped, especially with an extra person. The engined had barely started when Cloud grimaced, a greenish tinge washing over his face. Sephiroth fingered the materia in the slot of his gauntlet, prepared to knock the boy out if need be. Cloud lurched forward as the truck shifted into gear and began to move.

“Here,” Vincent said, pulling Cloud over to sit on one of the many crates. Rather than looking out the back window and watching the landscape recede, he now sat facing the overhead window that looked into the cab; the backs of the driver and Tifa’s heads clearly visible. Cloud blinked, already looking less green.

“Wow, okay, that’s better,” he remarked. Vincent seemed to melt, going from standing to sitting cross-legged on the floor in one fluid motion.

“It’s creepy how you do that,” Zack remarked. Vincent blinked, looking up at him.

“Do what?” 

“Never mind.”

Reaching, Vincent took Cloud’s hand in his, holding it palm up and pressing his thumb against the inside of his wrist. Cloud seemed a bit perplexed by this, but after a moment, sat up a little straighter.

“I don’t feel as sick,” he announced, nonplussed. “How’d you do that?”

Vincent offered him a flicker of a smile. “Pressure points.”

“Show me,” Zack asked, scooting across the boxes to watch.

“Here,” Vincent moved to one side, gliding with an unnatural grace. “It works better when you use two hands, anyway.”

“I love you man,” Zack told him, “but you are one freaky dude.”

Sephiroth bit his lip to suppress a chuckle and reached into one of the crates. He’d managed to go through almost all of the notebooks, but there was still a box of them he hadn’t yet touched. Flipping it open, he did his best to read the Professor’s minute, blocky handwriting while the truck bumped and trundled along. After a few minutes of watching the pages vibrate, Sephiroth began to appreciate what Cloud had experienced on the way up. Hastily, he closed the book before he could become further nauseated.

Cloud had actually nodded off pinching his own wrists and sat slumped against Zack who was also dozing, arms crossed and chin nodding on his chest. At first Sephiroth thought Vincent was asleep as well. One of his long legs tucked up, his flesh elbow rested on his bent knee, and his claw lay curled in a fist in his lap. He’d dressed in the black uniform and red cloak they’d found him in. There hadn’t been much left of the guard’s uniform and it hadn’t fit him very well anyway. There were enough characters in Midgar that he wasn’t likely to draw too much attention. However, that raised a rather important question that had not previously had a chance to present itself. Noticing he was being watched, Vincent looked up.

“Yes?”

“I was trying to think of what we’re going to do with you,” Sephiroth told him, feeling Vincent ought to have a say in this. “We can’t bring you back to Shinra headquarters.”

“That’s probably not a good idea, no,” Vincent agreed.

“I also have to figure out what to do with the girl. You’re right, she shouldn’t be set loose on her own in Midgar.”

Vincent nodded. For a moment, they both sat silent.

“...who’s running the Turks these days?”

“A man named Tseng.”

Vincent blinked blankly.

“You wouldn’t know him,” Sephiroth assured him. “He’s close to me in age. He only took over from Veld about two years ago.”

That made him sit up straighter. “Veld?”

“Yes, Veld Verdot. He was head of the Turks for a good twenty years or…” Sephiroth trailed off as realization dawned. “You know him.”

Vincent nodded. “We were in training together. ‘V’ names,” he shrugged. “We went on to be partners.”

There was clearly more to it than that, but Sephiroth decided not to press the issue.

“...is he still alive?” The words were cautious, guarded. It struck Sephiroth, suddenly, how strange all this must be for Vincent. Everyone he’d known or cared about had either grown old or died. Sephiroth searched his memory, but came up blank.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’ve never interacted with the Turks all that much. We can look him up as soon as we get back.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Vincent’s face as he nodded. “I’d like that.”

 

\--

 

The trip back to Midgar was not a short one. It had taken them almost a week to make the journey to Nibelheim. Why Shinra had sent them to such a remote corner of the world was still a mystery. The question nagged at Sephiroth like an itch that could not be scratched. With little else to do on the endless drive across country and the slow voyage across the sea from Costa Del Sol to Junon, he finished the rest of the journals. He got his answer, but it was far from satisfactory.

At least Cloud had better luck with ships than he did with automobiles. Although he was queasy for the first hour or so, he soon got his sea legs. He and Zack proceeded to make a nuisance of themselves trying to help the naval crew. Sephiroth did not mind. He let them have their fun, his own mind too full to bother about minor disciplinary infractions. Vincent, as ever, kept to himself and said little to anyone even when asked. The crew, perhaps frightened by his uncanny red eyes, gave him a wide bubble of space. This was just as well. Sephiroth had no desire to try to deal with any of Vincent’s “friends” while in the middle of the ocean.

Vincent seemed to gravitate to the highest points of the ship; open places where he could see the sky. Unable to pace his cabin any longer, Sephiroth went to look for him, and found him perched above the lookout deck.

“What do you know about the Promised Land?” Sephiroth asked, pulling himself up onto metal outcropping. Vincent tilted his head.

“Academically or spiritually?”

It was Sephiroth’s turn to be confused. “Is there a difference?”

Vincent shrugged. “I remember Lucy- Lucrecia, your mother- and the others talking about it. Ifalna and Gast would argue for hours about the translation of the phrase. I don’t know if scholars are still fussing about it. I can’t imagine much of anyone would care these days.”

He paused, fixing Sephiroth with his red stare. “Why? I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“It was in the journals,” Sephiroth began. “Some of the later ones. Shinra wanted a Cetra to lead them the Promised Land of legend; a land flowing with Makou energy. There were no more Cetra, so they made one. They were going to follow me,” he went on, hands curling into angry fists. “They thought that if I met what I thought was my mother, what they thought was a Cetra, that we’d lead them skipping down the garden path to a place where a makou reactor could suck the well forever and never drain it dry.”

Every muscle had tensed, every nerve stretched taut. Inside him, anger burned white and hot.

“I was created so that Shinra could make more money,” he growled, the words gagging him. “Except I never heard the voice of the Planet. So they made me into a weapon instead, and sent me to conquer nations that did not want or need makou power.”

Five years of his life; fifteen to twenty, he’d spent fighting in the Wutai war. Barely Cloud’s age, although considerably taller, he’d been shipped off to slaughter the Wutaians who had resisted Shinra’s attempts to desecrate their most sacred site by building a makou reactor on top of it. He’d seen Gast’s map in one of the notebooks, marking the holy places with little zig-zag stars and labeled with his neat, slanted handwriting. Ramuh had once sat atop Mt. Nibel, Titan’s throne had been in the heart of the Gongaga forest, Shiva’s home beneath the waves on Junon’s shores, and of course the water god Leviathan of war-torn Wutai… On and on and on, every location had been dug up, rebuilt, and had “Property of Shinra” plastered all over it. They’d conquered the whole damn world, and he’d helped them do it without ever knowing.

Things spiritual had not been part of his education growing up. He knew the names of the old gods, but only as power to be summoned in battle through the use of materia. Scientifically, it made sense that the sacred sites across the world would be the best places to put a makou reactor. The deposits there would be unusually high, ideal for extraction. Professor Hojo had told him countless times to dismiss such superstitious nonsense. Sephiroth did not feel especially guilty about what had become of so many local shrines. Surely with the turn of another century approaching, the age when people looked to the earth and skies for divine intervention was over? What truly stung, what fueled the hurt, the fury inside him, was that he had been used.

Old Man Shinra was going to pay.

Reaching, Vincent rested a hand on his shoulder, startling out of of his reverie. The metal of his prosthetic hand clattered awkwardly against Sephiroth’s pauldron. No one ever touched him unless it was to administer a makou injection, or some sort of similar medical procedure. Even Zack did not touch him; had never tried to high-five or shake his hand. The only instance of anyone touching him even casually had happened two days ago when Zack had caught him when he collapsed in the reactor. Sephiroth wasn’t sure if that really counted since he had not been awake for most of it. He had always thought he did not like people touching him, but the weight of Vincent’s claw was comforting somehow. He didn’t care if it was scratching the surface of his armor, or that the sharp points of the talons were digging into his coat. The gesture had been made in support, in solidarity, and Sephiroth appreciated that.

For a long moment they sat quietly. Bracing both hands behind him, Sephiroth leaned back and looked up at the sky. It was a clear day, the sky as blue as the sea with hardly a cloud in sight- not that that mattered with a steam ship. It seemed incongruous that he should discover such a wretched truth on such a beautiful day. At length, Vincent broke the silence.

“What are you going to tell Shinra?”

There were any number of things he would _like_ to tell Shinra at this point, and while it would do much to improve his mood, it likely would not improve the situation.

“That the mission was successful.”

Vincent looked at him.

“We found and dealt with the issue,” Sephiroth went on. “There will be no more trouble from the Nibelheim makou reactor.”

“No, but we’ve still got a hell of a problem to deal with.”

It was true. Allowing what they’d thought was the corpse of Jenova to fall into the makou well had indeed been a most egregious tactical oversight.

“Yes,” Sephiroth agreed. “We do.”

“Won’t the board be curious as to why you haven’t tried to wander off yet? Won’t Hojo?”

“Probably,” Sephiroth growled, some of the anger returning. “I don’t go up to the science department much anymore, but I imagine he’ll have me visiting daily until I start to show signs of wanderlust.” He had never liked the Professor, and this latest insult was just one more in a list of grievances so long that he’d given up trying to number them. Allowing himself a frustrated sigh, Sephiroth rubbed his face with both hands.

“You don’t like him.”

Sephiroth felt this was the very definition of an understatement. “No.”

“May I ask why?”

Considering he’d practically cleaved him in two during a similar conversation, Vincent had a right to ask. However, Sephiroth did not want to talk about that. Not now. Preferably not ever.

“Not now,” he said shortly. Vincent nodded and went back to looking at the sky. A V-shaped line of seabirds flew past.

“If I may suggest, you might be able to put your cover story to our advantage.”

Sephiroth turned to look at him. “How so?”

“The monster escaped- which is not untrue- and you need to track it down.”

Sephiroth nodded. It made sense. It was the kind of thing a Turk would think of; not wholly true, nor yet a lie. But how to track down a living fossil? Surely Jenova could not run. She had no legs- at least not that he had seen. Had she dissolved, or held her shape? And should they catch her, what then? Beheading her clearly hadn’t worked, nor had setting her on fire. Despite all the information within the notebooks, none of it would be of any use. Gast’s fatal assumption was presuming the fossil had been an Ancient. According to Vincent and Chaos- Sephiroth took a moment to boggle that he was taking the word of an actual Force of Nature- Jenova was something that had fallen from the skies eons ago, deceiving and then slaughtering the Cetra. Chaos had seemed certain Jenova would attempt this ploy a second time, and there was no reason not to believe him. (Except, again, he’d had a rather violent discussion with a honest-to-gods Guardian of the planet and Sephiroth had not yet managed to wrap his mind around that.) Surely there were records somewhere documenting the downfall of the Cetra and this- as Chaos had put it- Crisis From The Skies?

They needed to know more about their enemy first. There was only one place likely to house the information they needed, and the keeper of such knowledge was not likely to give it up willingly. Sephiroth allowed himself a frustrated sigh. He would have to venture up to the 67th floor. He would have to speak with Professor Hojo.

 

\--


	11. Misdiagnosed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time.
> 
> Quick flashback from Hojo's perspective.

_When he’d told Lu the Turk was dead, he hadn’t been lying. He’d honestly thought the experiment had failed, and that Valentine had breathed his last. Except when he opened the simple metal coffin to perform the autopsy, the Turk was still breathing. Slowly, shallowly, but breathing nonetheless._

_“It figures,” Hojo grumbled at the corpse-that-wasn’t. “You live and Lu…” he couldn’t make himself finish, his throat closing off any further comments. It was hard to think of her as… Again, his mind skipped over what had happened. He should have seen it coming, should have anticipated there would be complications, and he had planned for such things, but apparently not enough. Toxemia was one of those things that could not be treated, only prevented, and it had all happened so quickly…_

_A one-armed Turk in a box seemed a poor consolation prize for losing one’s wife. Armed. Hojo snickered to himself at the gallows humor. Everything was funnier after getting up fifteen time a night to see to the needs of a newborn. Never mind. Maybe he would arm this Turk. (Yep, still funny.) There were also observations to make regarding the materia implanted in his chest. His wounds appeared to be healing nicely, although his left pectoral was still one giant mass of sutures. Not wanting a repeat of the fiasco that had occurred back in Nibelheim, Hojo prepped a sedative and stuck the needle in the Turk’s remaining arm._

_“Put this specimen in the remaining makou tank,” he instructed one of the lab assistants. “Label it ‘MT007’, and see that he’s kept sedated.” He’d probably give the Turk a less obvious label, but for now, he was too amused to care._

_There were only two makou pods in this part of the lab, a third under construction. One was already occupied, the blue-green liquid stained violet from her blood. Having helped wrestle Vincent’s inert, gangly body into the remaining pod, Hojo went over to inspect the other. Inside it, Lucrecia drifted peacefully, hair flowing loose about her like a cloud. Submerged, she reminded him of fairy tales his mother had told him of mermaids and sirens, the daughters of the waves. Lu had loved the ocean. He’d promised to take her to Costa Del Sol for a real honeymoon once things had settled. Maybe he’d get to keep that promise after all?_

_The Turk had lain unattended in the coffin for almost two months with no food, no water, and apparently without waking up. Hojo was pretty sure he would have heard any sounds of struggle coming from within the tin box. If the Turk had survived so much neglect in his condition, how much more hope was there for Lucrecia? All her organs were intact- well, almost all of them- no bones broken, only her blood chemistry had been compromised. He’d filled her veins with blood and makou the moment Sephiroth had emerged, squalling fit to bring the ceiling down. It had stopped the seizures, but not the bleeding. She’d passed out, flatlined, and not knowing what else to do, he had tucked her into her own womb to heal. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. Couldn’t be. He couldn’t do this on his own._

_“I’ll help you,” he promised watching her sleeping face. “I’ll find a way to bring you back to me, to Sephiroth.” Hojo smiled and swallowed hard, blinking at the salt sting in his eyes. “He’s so beautiful Lu. Perfect in every way. You’ll hold him soon. Just..be patient. I’ll find a way, I promise.”_

_\--_

_There were three makou pods in the back room, what the others had dubbed his “private lab”. The Turk drifted on the left, Lu in the middle, and the one on the right he kept open for Sephiroth in case of emergencies. He was just little yet, only a few months old and unlikely to need such incubation. Still, the nagging worry that he might need such treatment made him keep the pod vacant, just in case._

_Three was such a strange number. Man, woman, child. Maiden, mother, crone. Three bears. Three blind mice. Three little pigs. True, Sephiroth was probably too young to appreciate even literature designed for small children, but it didn’t hurt to start early. His son tucked up against his shoulder, sound asleep, Hojo stared at the two occupied vesles._

_‘Is he really your son?’ The thought came unbidden, rising silently, a fog of doubt clouding his reason. ‘Do you know for sure? You don’t remember any of it.’_

_“Sephiroth is my son,” he told himself firmly. “Mine and Lu’s. No one else’s.”_

_Except that wasn’t strictly true. Sephiroth’s DNA was a three way split of his, Lucrecia’s, and the Ancient Jenova’s. Still, he’d much rather share his child with an antique race renowned for their art and learning, extinct though they might be, than the Turk. Although they weren’t extinct anymore. The baby in his arms was proof of that._

_‘She loved him more,’ the doubt whispered. ‘She knew him longer, loved his father, loved him. She did not love you.’_

_“Yes she did,” Hojo insisted to no one in particular. “She did. I know she did. I loved her. Maybe it wasn’t a wild, passionate romance but...we had something. It worked for us, that’s what matters.”_

_‘Does it?’ the doubt sounded amused. ‘You couldn’t save her. You saved the male, and he tried to bite her head off. Do you think she will be so generous, if ever she wakes up? Will she forgive you, do you think? It’s your fault, you know. You let her die.’_

_“I tried to save her,” Hojo rasped through a throat suddenly knotted tight. “I tried… There was nothing else I could do…”_

_‘Perhaps not.’ This time, the words were gentle. ‘She would have returned to him anyway. Perhaps it is better this way.’_

_“Shut up!” Hojo hissed. “Just shut up!” Tears flowed down his face, spotting his glasses with salt. On his shoulder, Sephiroth began to fuss. Dammit, he had no idea what he was doing. Lu would know. Lu would be able to quiet the baby with a word, with a touch. Children so young needed a mother. Without Lu, Sephiroth would have to be fed formula, and therefore was already off to a late start. At least he wasn’t underweight. For a child who was technically premature- just seven months incubation- he’d been practically ten pounds and almost twenty-two inches. A big, strong boy. A good boy, a smart boy. His boy. The doubt could whisper all it liked, Sephiroth was his son and no one else’s. Of course he was. Hojo was sure of it._

_Still, looking at the two sleeping faces behind the portals made him think of a couple standing side by side; lying together in bed. That should be him next to Lu, not the damn Turk._

_‘He brought it on himself,’ the doubt hissed in agreement. ‘He should not have stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. He tried to take her from you. He will try again if you let him.’_

_Unconsciously, Hojo tightened his grip on the baby._

_‘She tried to save him so she could go back to him. If she truly loved you, she would not have cared if he died. She would have been grateful to you.’_

_No, surely that couldn’t be right. Lu would never let a man die in cold blood- or warm blood, for that matter. She was a scientist and a doctor. She didn’t like to see people ill or injured. The materia had been a stroke of genius, but... it was awfully extreme…_

_‘He will try to take her if you let him,’ the doubt warned. ’He will try to take your son. He should be punished for his prying. He should learn not to make the same mistake again.’_

\--


	12. Missing Persons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion the first.

Veld looked up at the jangle of the bell on the door as it opened. It had proved to be a slow day, which was fine. Private eye’s needed slow days to catch up on that never ending administrative nightmare known as “paperwork”. He had enough work to do what with typing up reports and making calls. He’d do some actual leg work tomorrow. Still, it figured that this prospective client would wait until the last five minutes before closing time. They always did.

“May I help you?” Veld asked, turning away from the keyboard to face his visitor.

The man was tall with long, ragged black hair falling over his face, the rest of his body obscured by a long cloak. In the dim light- he really needed to replace that bulb- it was difficult to make out his features. Half his face was shrugged into the high collar of the cloak.

“I understand you investigate missing persons cases?” the client mumbled.

A chill ran down Veld’s spine. _Damn_ that voice sounded familiar. It couldn’t be. Poor kid was probably dead and gone by now. He hoped he wasn’t, but after all this time, it was hard not to think the worst.

“That’s right,” Veld nodded as the man took a seat. Folded into the chair, they were nearly eye-to-eye, but the man leaned back, keeping his face in shadow. Inwardly, Veld sighed. Probably another jealous boyfriend or something equally tedious. Why couldn’t these kids make up their minds; either get married and stick with it, or have a fling and have done? “What can I help you with?”

“What can you tell me about Vincent Valentine?”

The shiver ran through him again; chilling his whole body and not just his chest. Was this one of the kids sent to check up on him? Once Shinra, always Shinra. No matter how far you ran, they always found you. He ought to know. He had figured they’d come to collect him some day, he just hadn’t figured on today being that day.

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he said slowly, one hand maneuvering under the desk for the spare gun hidden beneath. “What’s it to you?”

“Cold case, isn’t it?”

Veld nodded. “That’s right. Went missing over twenty-five years ago. Vanished on assignment. No one’s seen him since.”

“Have there been any leads?”

“Rumors,” Veld said with an evasive shrug. “Digging into Shinra secrets is more than my skin’s worth. You take my advice, son, and leave it alone. No good ever comes of digging up corpses.”

“You’re sure he’s dead, then?”

“Presumed. There’s no proof either way.”

“Actually, there is.”

Veld raised an eyebrow. “You want me to open a case that’s almost thirty years cold?”

The man shook his head and stood, stepping into the light.

“No,” he said, unwrapping the cloak from his shoulders and pushing back his hair. “I want you to close it.”

_Dear gods…_

If Veld had not already been sitting, he was sure he would have collapsed. The hair was too long, the eyes the wrong color, but there was no mistaking him. It could not be anyone else. Except...he still looked the same. Valentine had just turned twenty-seven years old when he’d disappeared. Born the same year but six months apart, Veld had teased him by calling him “kid”, and Valentine had given as good as he got by calling Veld “old man”. Valentine would be over fifty now, just like Veld was himself. Gods, he felt old.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Veld rasped, hand closing around the weapon. Thumbing the safety off, he stood and leveled it between the man’s eyes. “Or were you hoping I’d come along quietly?”

Red eyes stared back at him, pleading. Veld tightened his grip on the pistol.

“My middle name is Erique, with a ‘Q’,” the man told him. “I have a younger brother named Geoff. My father was Dr. Grimoire Valentine, killed while on expedition with Lucrecia Crescent.”

Veld could only stare. The stranger went on.

“I hate sweets. If there was cake, I’d give you my frosting and eat your cake. I need TEDs to read, I’m so far-sighted. I always used to make you do all the typing. We were partners for nine years, roommates in basic before that. I never did tell anyone about the incident with the banana peels. I threw you a bachelor party, stood best man at your wedding, and got your daughter a stuffed moogle when she was born.”

Slowly, Veld lowered the pistol, clicking the safety back into place.

“Is that enough?” Vincent asked, “or shall I go on?”

Edging around the desk and past some over-stuffed filing cabinets, Veld stepped up so they stood toe-to-toe. It was the same face, the same too-earnest expression. That was what made it so creepy. This was Vincent, his partner, his best friend, exactly as he remembered him.

“My gods, it _is_ you…” Veld breathed, now able to look into the red-eyed face up close.

“It’s been a long time, Velly,” Vincent told him, the crooked little smile curling his lips too sad to be real. Stretching, Veld yanked on the cord attached to the window blinds, the little slats snapping shut, blocking out the view of the street. Turning, he pulled Vincent into a crushing hug. The kid returned it gladly.

“Damn you,” Veld sniffed, words pinched from the knot in his throat. “The hell have you _been_?”

“It’s a long story,” Vincent repeated, the words weighted with regret. “Buy you a drink?”

“ _A_ drink?” Veld echoed with a grin. “You owe me about a hundred.”

The smile pulling at the kid’s face didn’t look as painful this time. “Guess I better get started, then.”

 

\--

 

Twenty-five years hadn’t done a thing to him. Vincent looked even younger than Veld remembered. Tall as he was, Vincent had had something of a baby face. Now, however, there was a curious agelessness to it. There were no wrinkles, no creases, his skin had not turned to leather the way Veld’s had. However, the eyes of a much older man peered out from the youthful features; eyes that had seen what desperate men were capable of. Hojo had had a hand in that, apparently. No pun intended. It was like something out of a pulp novel, or a B-rated horror movie, and yet there he sat. Bronze claw largely hidden by the drape of his red cloak, no one paid too much attention to the two tall men sequestered in the corner of the bar. Downing the last of his drink, Veld shook his head.

“If I hadn’t spent twenty years inside Shinra, I’d never have believed you.”

Vincent chuckled a bit at that, the accompanying smile still not quite believable. “Me either. Retired, then?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Veld replied, pouring himself a refill. “I keep my head down, and Tseng looks the other way. He’s a good kid. They all are. Shame what the place is coming to. You think it was rotten when we were young, you should see it now.”

“I‘d like to.”

Veld nearly choked on his whiskey. “Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

Veld did laugh at that. This time, Vincent’s smile was real if incredibly short-lived.

“I need to get back inside, Veld. We both know the Turks have access to company information that no one else does. Only the science department rivals them for skeletons in the closet.”

Both literal and figurative. Veld nodded thoughtfully. “Well, the way I see it, you got two options. One, we set up some fake credentials and you sign on under a new identity. Maybe tell people you’re Valentine junior or something. Two, you waltz back in like it hasn’t been twenty-five years and try to pick up where you left off. There’s hazards to both. The Science Department doesn’t bother with Turks, they’re so busy with the SOLDIER program. You might be able to swing it if we can get some of the old crowd on our side.”

“Who’s still around?”

Veld had to think about that. “The board’s mostly old-timers like us. Heidegger's in charge of the military, the pompous old blowhard,” he remarked fondly, ticking off the names on his fingers. “Scarlett’s in charge of Materia and Weapon’s Development- girl always did like things that went ‘boom’. Palmer’s running the Space Program. Since Norbit stepped down, Reeve’s in charge of Urban Development- you don’t know him- and Hojo’s running the Science Department.”

Veld couldn’t be sure, but he was pretty sure a growl- an honest-to-Ifrit _growl_ \- had escaped Vincent’s throat. Across from him, his old partner gripped his glass a little harder.

“I owe the esteemed professor a visit,” Vincent grumbled, the words gravely and savage in a way Veld did not remember. “But not just yet. I have other things to take care of first.”

“Such as?”

“You know of a General Sephiroth?”

Veld snorted. “Who doesn’t? Shinra’s got his face plastered all over everything. ‘Sephiroth wants YOU to join SOLDIER’ and all that crap. He’s the best piece of propaganda they ever put together.”

“He’s Lucy’s boy.”

Caught in mid-swallow, Veld coughed and sputtered. Vincent had to reach across the table to thump him on the back before he could regain his breath.

“Say _what_?” he gasped, eyes watering.

“He’s Lucy’s son,” Vincent repeated. “She asked me to look out for him.”

For a moment, Veld could only sit and stare. In lieu of a reply, he gulped the remaining liquor in his glass and pushed a hand through his hair.

“Damn,” he said at length. “Well, I’m glad you two finally got your act together. It was painful watching you. I could never decide who was more oblivious, but it was obvious to pretty much everyone else you two had it bad.”

Vincent blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You and Lucy,” Veld repeated, “trying to be starry-eyed from a polite distance. I had hoped you’d get off your ass and ask her out once you didn’t have so many eyes on you. Guess things went a bit further than that.” Raising his glass in silent congratulations, Veld smiled and took a sip. Strangely, Vincent blushed.

“Nothing happened, Veld. Not between Lucy and I, anyway.”

“I not asking you to kiss and tell,” Veld told him, amused. “Defend your lady’s honor if you must. Though I should tell you, nobody cares about that kind of thing anymore.”

“I’m not kidding,” Vincent insisted. “He’s not mine. I think I’d know if he was.”

“You’re telling me _nothing_ happened?”

“I believe I said that already, yes.”

With a sigh, Veld massaged the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Well, if I doubted you before, I don’t now. Only you would be that stupidly chivalrous. You disappoint me, Valentine, you really do.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, but behind his collar, a half-smiled pulled at one corner of his mouth.

“So you owe Lucy a favor. Always did like her. Good kid. You two would have been good together.” Veld watched as Vincent’s face darkened and hurried to change tack. “What do you need from me?”

“I wasn’t the only thing Sephiroth found in Nibelheim,” Vincent began. “He’s going to need inside information, and while he might have the clearance for it, I don’t think he knows where to look.”

“But you do.”

Vincent nodded. Veld shook his head.

“No you don’t.”

Vincent blinked.

“Vin, it’s all computers now, and not those full-room monsters that Palmer used to make the punch cards for. These are little things, fit on a desk top, half as big and twice as fast. Nothing’s on paper anymore. If you took him down to the archives, you’d spend years trying to dig through it all.”

“Do you think what we’ll need is digital?” Vincent asked, dubious. Veld thought about that.

“Maybe not, I don’t know, but it so happens I know a guy who does.”

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you not familiar with military slang, TED stands for "Tactical Eye Device". This acronym describes the standard-issue plain black (and often incredibly thick) plastic glasses issued to those enlisted to serve their country. They are considered quite stylish by hipsters.


	13. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth works off some frustration- or tries to.  
> Is it weakness to feel, or only human?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As near as I can tell, this is set mid-way through "Crisis Core" and most of the cast thinks both Angeal and Genesis are dead at this point.  
> I have no idea if they'll be popping up later or not. We'll see.

It was the same as it had always been. A physical once-over, drawn blood, a makou booster, and a series of invasive questions to which Sephiroth’s answer to every last one was invariably “no”. He understood the necessity for such a check-up, but that didn’t make him hate it any less, particularly when the Professor attended him himself. It was bad enough having to suffer the ordeal at the hands of one of the techs, but having Professor Hojo hanging over his shoulder like some molting carrion bird was ten times worse.

“Did you find anything of interest in Nibelheim?” the Professor asked him, peering at his notes through the round lenses of his glasses.

“I suppose so,” Sephiroth answered vaguely.

“Oh?”

“...they had really good food,” he replied, the evening at Cloud’s house the first thing coming to mind. The Professor shook his head and huffed through his nose before flipping to a new page.

“What about the reactor? Anything of interest there?”

“No.”

The old man looked up from his scribbling for the briefest of moments.

“No surprises, then?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “Nothing unusual.”

The Turk must be rubbing off on him.

“Hmm…” was the Professor’s only comment. “Well, that’s disappointing. Your arm.”

Sephiroth bit his tongue. Offering his arm, he did his best to relax. Tensing up made an injection worse, but it was hard not to with the old man’s spidery fingers crawling all over him. Makou he didn’t mind so much, but the pink stuff always left him feeling cold and tired. It _burned_ when injected; not like fire, but like ice, and left a sore spot that lasted for days. He didn’t wince, only gritted his teeth behind closed lips, expression carefully blank. It wasn’t just the injection, however. He had a hundred questions burning in his mind, not one of which he dared ask. Such inquiries would only breed more questions, all of them coming from the Professor’s mouth; questions about Vincent, Jenova, and who he thought his real mother was. The question fizzed on his tongue, burning his mouth, but he swallowed it back, contenting himself with the mental image of the look on the Professor’s face should he ask it:

_Who is Lucrecia?_

“Come back in a few days,” the Professor told him, tossing his latex gloves into the trash bin. “I want to do a full work-up. Crawling around inside a reactor will play havoc with one’s makou levels.”

Sephiroth said nothing, counting the seconds until he could go. It took a moment for the Professor to notice he was still sitting on the exam table.

“Dismissed,” he told him carelessly, and returned to his notes.

Sephiroth grabbed his coat and left.

 

\--

 

Any interaction with Professor Hojo tended to put Sephiroth in a foul mood. The backhanded grilling along with more injections, and the lingering sensation that he was being watched had burned his patience down to the last few frayed ends.

Dammit, he needed to hit something.

There was no suitable prey in Midgar, or even opponents. Going down a floor to the training center, Sephiroth stepped into the simulator and found it empty. Good. That saved him the annoyance of having to eject whoever might have been using it. Scrolling through the options seemed to take too long. Like flicking through endless television stations and finding nothing worth watching, he couldn’t find anything to go up against that would even let him break a sweat. Yanking over the console chair, he sat down. Typing standing up was awkward, and this was clearly going to take longer than he would have liked.

As General, he had command of the army as a whole, the SOLDIERS in particular. The training simulator was open to him, although he only knew the basics of manipulating the program. Opening the options menu, he scrolled through some of the customization features. The technique, style, and other statistics of every SOLDIER were logged in its database. Sephiroth blinked as several familiar names appeared under the “EXPERT” sub-menu.

_Col. Hewley, Angeal_  
_Col. Rhapsodos, Genesis_  
_Gen. Sephiroth_

He’d known he was a combat option. To his knowledge, no one had beaten his virtual phantom, although there was a substantial betting pool among the recruits. A handful had come close to beating Angeal and Genesis’ holograms, but none so far. It struck him as strange and wrong that the ghosts of his friends should still be here, trapped in an afterlife of electricity. Then again, they had loved to compete. Perhaps they would not mind this make-believe Valhalla where they could fight forever and never be injured, never be killed?

Except they had died. A while ago. It was no use dwelling on it, there was nothing to be done. Still, they’d left empty spaces that had never been filled. Sephiroth wondered sometimes if the holes would ever close?

Nevermind.

Keying the command, he locked their files, making them inaccessible to any would-be showoffs. Scrolling down to the final name, he selected it, and entered the command to begin the simulation.

The simulator was programmed to reproduce all sorts of terrain and environments. Perhaps because his own phantom was so rarely used, the landscape was unremarkable. Just an open plain of knee-high grass with the beginnings of foothills not far off that led up to sharp-peaked mountains in the distance.

Wait a minute…

The space in front of him flickered once, twice, and Sephiroth took a step back. This time, he was fairly certain his heart _had_ stopped, if only for a moment.

Maybe there was a glitch in the system, or perhaps it was because he was fighting himself that the computer had rendered the hologram in the negative. It was like looking into a mirror in the dark, or the reflection of a midnight window. The hologram had his face, his shape, even his uniform, but the colors were all reversed. Instead of black, the coat, boots, and trousers were white, belted and cuffed in gold. Long hair, black as night hung down its back. The skin was still fair, but had a sinister grayish cast to it, like something dead. Most disturbing of all, eyes red and glowing as live coals looked back at him.

Sephiroth gave himself a mental slap. No. It was just a hologram. Laser light and smoke, nothing more. Sliding Masamune from her sheath, he held her before him. The hologram drew its own weapon, the grip snow white, the blad black as sin. It mirrored Sephiroth’s salute, before dropping into the same ready stance.

It was like fighting a mirror. Every blow seemed backhanded, every dodge and feint mimicked perfectly by his copy. The unnaturalness of it made his skin crawl, the repetition just made him angry.

“ENOUGH!” he cried, stopping short and raising a hand to signal the operator.

Wait. There was no operator. He’d set the thing to autopilot.

He brought Masamune up only just in time, his doppleganger rushing him. The blades sheared against each other, sparks flying, as each fought to push the other back. Getting nowhere, Sephiroth leaped back, his shadow doing the same. Now, however, their movements were out of synch. No longer performing a strange ballet of mimicry, the phantom had taken on a life of its own. It pressed its advantage, and Sephiroth let it for a moment, trying to get a feel for what it was doing. It was not one of his better ideas. Rarely had he ever feigned retreat in live combat, preferring to take the upper hand and keep it until his opponent had been subdued.

The gut-clenching fear that Chaos had triggered in the pit of his stomach was not here this time. This was only a game, a dance with light and shadow. No actual damage could be inflicted, he wasn’t even fighting a real opponent, yet the red eyes and black hair choked something inside him.

Who was it that had told him you did not truly know someone until you fought them? If that were true, then Sephiroth was on intimate terms with most of the male population of Wutai, and about half the 1st Class SOLDIERS. Unless of course, one was counting the hologram. He’d thought he knew who he was, what he was. He hadn’t given it much- if any- thought until now. Too much had happened in too short a time. Nothing made sense anymore. Not this shadow of himself, the pile of books they’d salvaged from the manor in Nibelheim, nor the strange, silent man they’d rescued from the basement.

Sephiroth winced as the virtual phantom bore down on him, the swing sending shivers up his arms that vibrated his very bones. The red eyes glowed at him, the rest of its face impassive.

 _Avoid his eyes,_ Sephiroth scolded himself. _Focus on something else._

The flap of coat tails caught his eye. A _white_ coat.

Sephiroth could feel red flooding his own vision as thoughts of the Professor rose up inside him. No, he did not like the man. Had _never_ liked him. He was a condescending snob, always prattling on about nonsense Sephiroth had heard before, but treating him as if he were eight years old. He of the stooped shoulders and the greasy, graying ponytail. The great genius who had built him from scratch- from his own DNA if Vincent was to be believed. A growl escaped his throat and he rushed his shadow, red eyes be damned. The thing mimicked him again, charging forward, its black Masamune leveled straight at him. Sephiroth struck, letting rage direct his strokes. There had been pain, humiliation, and what anyone else would consider to be torture at the old man’s hands. Even worse, however, was the knowledge that all his life Hojo and Shinra had been jerking him about like a dog on a leash, like a puppet on a string.

“NO MORE!” He cried, raining down blows like hail upon his shadow. “ _NO MORE!_ ”

Abruptly the simulation cut off, the midnight field flickering and vanishing. Sephiroth squinted against the harsh glare of the floodlights on the bare metal walls. Looking down, he only just caught the image before it too flickered and died.

They had impaled each other. The shadow sword stuck in his gut just below his wide silver belt, Masamune penetrating the phantom’s body in the same spot-- and into the wall beyond. The same wall that held the control console. Oops. Carefully, he yanked Masamune free, the slit she’d left in the wall fizzing and sparking. His immediate thought was not of the damage he’d caused, or whether or not the console could be fixed, but of Genesis and Angeal. He hoped he hadn’t hit them. The idea of wounding computer code was absurd, but there it was. Resheathing Masamune, he rubbed his face with both hands. This was getting him nowhere.

Ignoring the damaged console for the moment, Sephiroth strode out of the simulator and took the elevator to the 48th floor. The barracks were here, along with just about everything else associated with the SOLDIER program. One of the perks of being a commanding officer was that he had his own quarters. Zack, as a 1st Class SOLDIER, also had his own room, but had to share the communal bathroom with the rest of the ‘Firsties’. As General, Sephiroth merited a bathroom attached to his quarters, and no one could enter his private rooms unless he admitted them. Not that anyone came knocking much these days. It was just as well. Right now, Sephiroth wanted to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note The First:  
> Okay, playing a bit loose with the military terms here. Squenix has the maddening habit of never really defining rank in any of their military cadre. As such, I am making the best approximation in that all SOLDIERs are commanding officers of some type with the 1st Class's obviously out-ranking just about everyone else.
> 
> Sephiroth is referred to as a "general" in the original game, and in a couple of other places. It's pretty obvious he's at the top of the pecking order, though he still obeys Shinra's directives (for the most part). As such, I stuck with Sephiroth's rank as general (as well as SOLDIER 1st Class), and assigned lesser command positions such as "Colonel" and "Lieutenant" to those slightly farther down the chain of command.
> 
> Note The Second:  
> "Firstie" is military slang for "First Class". Usually it refers to much lower-ranking soldiers such as privates, but I couldn't resist using it here. ^^
> 
> Hey, I'm from a military family.


	14. First Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay flashbacks!
> 
> It's hard to say at exactly what point things went wrong.

_  
For a long time there was darkness and pain. Pain and darkness. More darkness, more pain. Sometimes, just to mix things up, it was cold as well. Everything hurt and nothing would hold still. Lost in a swirling void of nothing, Vincent fought to hold on to what little there was. The only other thing that seemed to be there besides the floundering scrap of consciousness that was himself was...anger. It wasn’t even his anger. Just anger, a deep, smoldering anger like that of a dormant volcano floating somewhere off to one side. Vincent did his best to keep away from it._

_\--_

_‘Deceiver,’ the doubt hissed inside his head as Hojo tinkered with the prosthetic appendage. Engineering had always been a hobby of his; something light and low-risk to play with unlike the high stakes of medicine and biological science. The arm was coming along nicely, but he couldn’t help the second thoughts over whether or not he ought to attach it to the Turk’s shoulder._

_‘Why give him two arms? Why make it easier for him to strangle you? To steal the child away?’_

_“He’s not going anywhere,” Hojo mumbled. The staff did not even look up. They were used to him muttering to himself. “At worst he can go back to the Turks and he’ll be their headache, not mine.”_

_Off to one side, Sephiroth gurgled, babbling to himself as he played. The playpen- an absurd thing done in yellow tartan vinyl embellished with cartoonish animals frolicking all over its acrylic surface- stood in one corner in sharp contrast to the white light and stainless steel of the lab. The baby inside, however, seemed not to care. To the casual observer, Sephiroth might appear to be pushing two; already speaking several words and toddling about on his chubby legs. Precocious as only a child with such an extraordinary heritage could be, Sephiroth was in reality just short of a year old. Out of all his toys, he seemed to have a special fondness for the stuffed moogle with the rattle in its belly, most likely because of the noise it made when shaken. He also seemed to like the stacking rings, but more for teething than for the solving of puzzles. Indeed, he’d already mastered the art of laying the little acrylic donuts in the correct order over the plastic spike on its rocking base. Hojo sneaked a quick glance at his son- HIS son, dammit, no matter what the doubt whispered in his ear. Sephiroth was in the process of getting his feet under him, hampered somewhat by the diaper and its rubber cover. With any luck that would soon be addressed. Sephiroth’s keepers were well tuned to the boy’s schedule, but occasionally were not quite quick enough to get him to the potty seat. Standing, he was almost tall enough to peer over the edge of the playpen._

_‘Two hands,’ said the doubt. ‘Two hands to kill, two hands to steal. He has no heart. You know this. She put the Demon there instead. He will steal the child, steal her. He will take them away, for are they not his?’_

_“No,” Hojo told it with some annoyance. “They’re not his, they’re MINE. Lu loves ME. Sephiroth is mine. Ours. He’s not going to take them anywhere.” The argument was solid enough in Lu’s case. Still sleeping in stasis, she could not survive outside her makou tank. To steal her would be to kill her, and Hojo didn’t think the Turk would want that. The doubt said nothing, the silence implying that it did not believe these pronouncements any more than Hojo did himself._

_“The sooner I get him out of here, the sooner we can stop worrying about him.”_

_The doubt was not impressed. ‘Let him run wild and free to do as he pleases? Would he not enlist the others? Would he not turn them all against you? The other one was against this from the start.’_

_It meant Gast. Gast who was still trying to elbow his way into the spotlight, constantly giving orders as if Sephiroth were his achievement and not Hojo’s. His assistant was no better. Ifalna was always fawning over Sephiroth, cootchie-cooing him and teaching him ridiculous things._

_“Leave him alone,” Hojo had insisted more than once. “You’ll teach him bad habits.”_

_“He’s just a baby!” was the repeated answer, as if that explained everything. Sephiroth was not ‘just’ a baby. He was special. The last- or perhaps the first- of the Cetra as well as the progeny of two brilliant scientific minds. He didn’t mind Gast and Ifalna chatting with him, no child could flourish without interaction, but he didn’t see how addressing him in cutesy voices and indulging his every whim was going to further Sephiroth’s development. Although it was amusing watching two grown adults making perfect fools of themselves. At least Hojo had the decency to do his nurturing in private. None of the staff needed to see him fussing over a child too young to even understand the attention being given him._

_He wouldn’t stay too young for long. Sephiroth would be a year old in a few more months. Although he received monthly makou boosters as well as the standard vaccinations for a child his age, he had received no Jenova since his birth. His levels were still acceptable, but dwindling. He’d need a Jenova booster as well, but Gast had reservations. As much as he hated to admit it, Hojo had some concerns himself._

_‘Too young,’ the doubt agreed. ‘Much too young. Safe enough for you, for a man grown. Why not test it on another? Someone more fragile? If it does not harm him, it should not harm the child.’_

_It mean the Turk. The mechanical arm was yet incomplete, and so the Turk had drifted ignored in his tank ever since arrival. Injuries as healed as they were going to get- the operation had left an impressive scar- it would probably be safe to remove him from the tank and relocate him to one of the habitats for further recovery and observation. Maybe._

_“Prep specimen MT007 for the observation tank and see that he’s sedated,” he instructed one of the techs- a woman with brilliantly red hair, he forgot her name- as he cleared the metal parts away. “I want him awake, but not much more than that.”_

_His assistant nodded. “Yes, professor.”_

_\--_

_“I’m sorry Professor, I did my best,” his assistant shrugged._

_The Turk lay inert and senseless on the floor of the observation tank. Someone had seen fit to dress him in a pair of scrub trousers rather than send him in naked. Hojo waved her off._

_“This is fine.”_

_Crouching, he lifted the Turk’s remaining arm. It was easier than usual to find a vein, the thin blue lines snaking just beneath his fair skin all too obvious. Inserting the needle, Hojo pressed the plunger down, watching as the pink liquid within slowly disappeared._

_“There,” he said, standing. “We’ll see if that takes.”_

_He could have sworn he heard someone laughing, but upon looking around, no one else was there. Shrugging to himself, Hojo exited the tank with the assistant right behind him._

_At first there wasn’t much to see. The Turk just lay there catatonic for several minutes. Somewhere around the eight minute mark, he groaned and curled in on himself. The monitors on the control panel indicated a spike in body temperature. The gauge for monitoring heart rate twirled like a compass, unable to translate the rhythm of the Turk’s materia-augmented heart. Hugging himself with his remaining arm, the Turk lay shivering on the floor despite a temperature that had reached 100 degrees and was still climbing. Very strange. Hojo had experienced no adverse effects himself. Since Gast had been too cowardly to authorize his suggestion, Hojo had taken it upon himself to be the first test subject. The Cetra’s cells had stung, burning with cold fire once injected, but other than some mild discomfort, nothing much had happened. He still gave himself regular injections but so far with no discernible effect. Up until this point he had thought that perhaps he was simply too old for the Ancient’s DNA to have any effect on him. Either that, or he still did not carry enough within his bloodstream. The Turk, however, seemed to be actively ill, his body attacking the foreign cells with everything it had._

_A low moan from the speakers started Hojo out of his introspection. The Turk groaned a second time, his mumbling only barely discernible._

_“no…” he slurred, the words loose and slippery from the sedative. “leave me alone… I will not suffer you...a second time…”_

_Funny, he didn’t remember the Turk’s voice being quite that deep._

_“...be gone,” the Turk mumbled, trying to push himself up. “...be gone…”_

_He made it to all fours- well, threes- balancing unsteadily like a stool with a too-short leg. Eyes glassy and rolling in his head, he took one labored breath, two, three, and heaved. Having been fed intravenously, there wasn’t much to bring up. Or rather, there should not have been. Hojo wrinkled both brow and nose at the mess spilling from the Turk’s mouth. Phlegm or bile were to be expected, but the watery vomit spattering the floor was an unattractive gray-pink._

_“Subject not tolerating procedure,” Hojo narrated as the Turk continued to retch. “Exhibiting symptoms including high fever, delirium, and nausea with vomiting.”_

_Why was the Turk having such a violent reaction? It wasn’t the sedative, of that much he was fairly certain. It couldn’t the makou, Hojo had proven himself that makou could only be beneficial to the body. What then was throwing things off?_

_After a minute or two, the Turk ran out of steam and fell back on his knees, limbs quivering and gasping for oxygen. The scar on his chest rippled like a thing alive as he heaved air in and out. Of course! The materia!_

_Curling in on himself, the Turk clutched at his head and whimpered. “...foul crisis...leave me…”_

_A sob escaped his throat, features scrunched in pain. Like one drunk he lurched to his feet, wobbling unsteadily without the weight of a second arm to balance him._

_“Heavy rash at injection site,” Hojo went on. “Unknown if cutaneous or subcutaneous.”_

_Sub, Hojo decided as the Turk clutched at this stomach. He hadn’t turned green so much as all color had drained from his face. Abruptly, he doubled over and retched again, bringing up more of the gray-pink gunk. This time, there was blood._

_“What the hell?”_

_Hojo turned to see Gast at his elbow._

_“Isn’t that Vincent?” he asked, expression a perfect picture of thunder-struck horror. “What did you DO to him?”_

_“I didn’t do anything,” Hojo told him, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “That was Lu’s work.”_

_The puncture in the Turk’s arm had begun to ooze. Hojo recognized the syrupy fluid as a compromised slurry of the Jenova cells he’d injected only minutes ago. Inside his chest, the materia burned bright and red like a flame. Was the guardian spirit embedded in the materia rejecting the essence of the Ancient?_

_“Shut it down,” Gast ordered as if Hojo were his assistant and not the other way around. Keying the command, the observation tank began to grow foggy with gas._

_“That’s not going to do anything,” Hojo reminded him. “He’s a Turk. They get the same training as the military. That won’t even make his eyes water.”_

_It was true. The Turk had dropped to his knees, still heaving blood, otherwise seemed unaffected._

_“Well we need to reverse whatever you did,” Gast insisted. “He’s going to hemorrhage if he hasn’t already.”_

_“Calm down,” Hojo told him shortly, picking up the tranquilizer gun kept on hand for the larger specimens. “He’ll be fine. Why do you always assume it was me? I told you, this was Lu’s idea.”_

_It wasn’t like him to blame things on Lu, she’d only been trying to help after all. It would take a good minute for the blast and observation doors to unlock and open. Entering the command to unlock both, Hojo waited, weapon ready and resting on his shoulder. Once the steel and glass doors slid away, he stepped over the threshold but no farther. The Turk looked up at approaching footsteps. He started at him for a long moment, mouth and nose running with blood. Mentally, Hojo began to count._

_‘Five, four, three, two...’_

_As expected, the Turk’s eyes glowed an unnatural red and he staggered to his feet._

_“Destroyer…” the words were steadier now, and still much deeper than Hojo remembered. “Curse of the stars…”_

_The Turk lunged toward him, but Hojo was ready. Leveling the tranquilizer, he pulled the trigger, catching the Turk squarely in the middle of the chest. He blinked stupidly at the little feathered dart embedded in his flesh before pulling it out and squinting at it more closely. Tossing it aside, he made to advance, but got no farther than a few stumbling steps. The red glow faded from his eyes and he blinked at Hojo as if seeing him for the first time. For one horrible minute, the idea that the tranquilizer might not be enough crossed Hojo’s mind. Abruptly, the Turk crumbled to the floor like a toppled tower of blocks. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Hojo backed out of the observation tank and returned to the console._

_“That was a damn fool thing to do,” Gast admonished him. Hojo gritted his teeth and reloaded the tranquilizer._

_“Ifalna?”_

_“Sorry,” the assistant said with an abbreviated curtsey._

_“What is it?” Gast asked her. Biting her lip, she twisted her fingers._

_“Sephiroth’s figured out how to escape his playpen. I found it knocked onto its side.”_

_“And Sephiroth?” Hojo asked, all sense suddenly on full alert. “Where is he?”_

_“I don’t know,” she admitted, the sound of tear beneath her words. “I’ve been all over the lab and up and down the hall. No one’s seen him.”_

_Opening his mouth to deliver a stern reprimand, Hojo searched for terms severe enough but got no farther. Gurgling and cooing over the speakers froze the words in his throat._

_“Oh gods,” Gast breathed, leaning to look through the window of the control room. “He must have followed you in.”_

_Hojo watched in horror as Sephiroth marched right up to the Turk’s inert body. Face-down on the floor, the Turk did not move. Hojo prayed that he was unconscious. Frantically, Gast entered the code to unlock the observation tank’s double doors. Innocent of the danger, Sephiroth leaned both hands on the Turk’s undamaged shoulder, patting it a few times with a chubby palm._

_“Da!” Sephiroth cried. It was his default syllable for something that intrigued him, but for which he had no word. Despite this knowledge, something inside Hojo grew cold._

_“Da!” Sephiroth shouted again, and began to climb over the Turk’s body. The first hydraulic hiss of the lock gushed steam, and the blast door slid away revealing the glass observation hatch._

_“Can’t you type any faster?!” Hojo demanded._

_“He won’t hurt him,” Gast said tensely, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Even a Turk wouldn’t harm a child.”_

_Hojo was not so sure. Gast had no idea what Lu had implanted in her boyfriend’s body. Wait. Boyfriend? Where had that come from? Sephiroth’s squeal startled him away from the disquieting line of thought. The boy had climbed up and was sitting astride the Turk’s back, a smile of triumph on his little face._

_“Da! Da!”_

_On the floor, the Turk stirred, a muffled groan crackling through the speakers. The bottom seemed to drop out of Hojo’s stomach as he watched the Turk lift his head and turn to look at the baby sitting on his back. Using his flesh hand, he held Sephiroth stationary, turning beneath him until he lay on his back instead of his face._

_“Da!” Sephiroth cried, delighted, and crawled up the Turk’s chest to better examine his face. Astounded, Hojo watched as the Turk let the baby paw him. Ever curious, Sephiroth’s little hands patted the Turk’s cheeks and forehead, tugged at his hair, and even cautiously poked at one red eye. The Turk flinched at this last, shutting his eyes against the intrepid fingers. Amazingly, he smiled._

_“Little monster,” the voice was deep and gravely, far too deep to be that of the Turk. Although quiet with exhaustion, the tone was not unkind. “Cherish your innocence, for too soon it will be stolen away.”_

_At last the glass door slid open and Hojo rushed through. In one motion, he snatched Sephiroth and kicked the Turk away._

_“Daddy!” Sephiroth screamed as Hojo lifted him. Hojo froze, Sephiroth dangling at arm’s length, already in the throes of a full-on tantrum. At his feet, the Turk lay curled on his side, gasping in pain. For good measure, Hojo shoved him once more before bundling Sephiroth against his shoulder and striding back into the main lab._

_To his knowledge, Sephiroth had not used that word before. He should not even know it. No one had used it, certainly not in Hojo’s presence. Indeed, no one outside of Gast and Ifalna knew who Sephiroth’s blood parents truly were. He had asked them specifically not to say anything, not even to Sephiroth. Yet the word had been there, plainly spoken, and Hojo could not help the stab of hurt in his heart. Had Lu lied to him? Was he truly raising another man’s child? Would an infant Cetra recognize his true father by means not known to mortal men?_

_‘He knows,’ the doubt murmured. ‘He knows his father, knows his blood. A child knows.’_

_Swallowing hard, Hojo set Sephiroth- still screaming- back in the playpen._

_‘He is not yours.’_

_Shaking with...he didn’t even know what. Fear? Anger? Resentment? Hojo stared down at the little creature slowly coming down from his fit of temper. Sephiroth was not his. It hurt. But did it matter? So he carried the Turk’s blood. So what? He was still an Ancient, the first Cetra to be born in a thousand years. That was the important part, the heart of the project. It didn’t matter whose child he really was. His family were the Cetra, and they had all been dead for centuries._

_Tantrum spent, Sephiroth stood, leaning against the mesh like a convict in a jail cell._

_“Daddy?” he asked tearfully. Swallowing hard, Hojo forced the coldness inside him from his stomach to his heart._

_“You have no father,” he told Sephiroth sternly. Turning his back, he left the room, the door sliding shut behind him._

_\--  
_


	15. Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once a Turk, always a Turk.

“Twenty-five years ago, a good man and a good Turk went missing,” Veld said solemnly, pouring a measure into each glass.

As Vincent’s partner and best friend, it was his duty to lead the ceremony. A bottle of Vincent’s favorite and four glasses stood on the table, one of which would remain untouched before an empty seat. Veld, Vincent, Scarlett, and Palmer had been contemporaries back in the old days. Scarlett had begun her career as a typist before transferring laterally to become one of the first female Turks. Palmer, while no means a Turk, had been friends with Vincent by more conventional methods; music, books, and a certain nerdy taste in comics. Vincent’s disappearance had hit all of them hard. What had started as a memorial had become a tradition. Each October 13th, they’d have a drink together and reminisce about their lost friend and the good old days. Every year it got harder, not just to keep up hope that Vincent might still be alive somewhere, but also to remember their own glory days. Days more than twenty years distant, and yet to them, it didn’t seem so long ago.

“He would’ve been fifty-two today,” Veld went on, setting down the bottle and lifting his glass. “Maybe the stories are getting worn-out, maybe we should have given up years ago, but we’re Turks, and we don’t forget. We’re the last few people in the company who still remember him; who he was, what he looked like.”

At one time, there had been more people gathered around the table. One or two had retired due to injury, but most, like Vincent, were simply gone. Although less glamorous, a Turk’s life was every bit as dangerous as a SOLDIER’s. Very few could claim a tenure as long as Veld’s. Scarlett looked into her glass, expression smooth yet sad, a professional mask appropriate even for this informal occasion. Next to her sharp beauty, Palmer seemed doubly soft. His round, childish face was thoughtful as he listened.

“It’s our job to remember, to keep the secrets as well as the faith. I’ll keep on believing he’s alive until it’s proven otherwise. Here’s to ya, Vincent,” Veld said, raising his glass. “Happy fifty-two. Here’s hoping you’ll be here for fifty-three.”

“Fifty-three,” Scarlett echoed, smiling a little.

“Fifty-three and many more,” Palmer added.

“Sorry I’m late.”

As one they turned to face the speaker.

“About damn time you showed up.” Veld’s smirk was smug, but with a softness that he usually reserved only for his ‘kids’.

Scarlett stared, face a study in disbelief. Inside, her heart went cold, her whole body suddenly heavy and hollow. Shock like that of a live wire had stricken her mute and immobile save for one word:

“Vincent…”

“Hello, Letty.”

She felt the mask crack, the tears well up, and she didn’t care. Rushing forward, she threw her arms around him, sobbing all the harder because he hadn’t vanished into mist at her touch. Vincent was here, solid, warm and real, and hugging her back.

“Sonnuvabitch!” she sobbed, pulling back long enough to crack him across the face. “Where have you _been_?!” He reeled in her arms, rolling with the open-handed blow, his cheek already stinging red from the impact. The bewildered, almost guilty expression was so familiar her heart ached. Cupping his face in both hands, she kissed him full on the lips.

Vincent gave a startled “Mph!” and kissed her back for a moment, both of them ending it with a chuckle.

“Good to see you too,” he told her.

“Vincent!” Palmer was next in line, hand outstretched to shake. “Vincent, you old son-of-a-gun, I could kiss you myself!” Mercifully, he did no such thing, but he did pull the taller man into a hug, patting his shoulders warmly as he did so.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“You haven’t aged a day…” Scarlett remarked, smoothing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “What’s your secret?”

“I don’t think it’ll come over-the-counter any time soon,” Vincent told her with another one of his warped half-smiles. “Veld.”

“Vincent,” Veld nodded and saluted with his glass. “We’ve been waiting long enough. C’mon over here and have a drink. We saved you a seat.”

 

\--

At first, Vincent did all the talking. Never one to waste words, his story was simple and to the point. Veld personally though it could have done with a few more details, but if Vincent didn’t know them himself, then it would be unfair to expect such a thing. Both Palmer and Scarlett were quiet as they listened to the sordid tale. One on either side of him, Scarlett kept her arm around him the whole time. Palmer, a bit more reserved, would rest a hand on Vincent’s arm or shoulder, as if making sure he wasn’t going to vanish into thin air. Vincent had never been the touchy-feely sort, but he didn’t seem to mind the contact. Veld supposed twenty-five years in a box would do that.

“Well,” Scarlett said when Vincent had finished, “that explains a few things.”

“Does it?” Vincent asked. “I still feel like I’ve got less than half of the full story.”

Palmer just shook his head. “It’s a terrible thing… It’s not right, it’s just not right. Hojo’s never been what you’d call personable, but I never would have thought he was capable of something so cruel.”

“Yeah, he was nerdy and kinda anti-social back then, but now…” Scarlet shook her head and sipped at her drink, leaving a waxy half-circle of red on the rim of her glass.

“I was against the experiment from the beginning,” Vincent muttered. “They should have gone through a few more mice first, but they didn’t. Before Hojo started on Sephiroth, he practiced on me. Me and several others. I’d like some answers, but Sephiroth deserves to know as well.”

“Just say the word,” Scarlett promised. “Absolutely anything, Vin. Whatever you need.”

“He needs to talk to Tseng,” Veld put in, setting his glass down with a decisive clink. “We need to keep things quiet higher up.”

He did not have to ask, he didn’t need to. Palmer crossed his heart, zipped his lips, locked the deadbolt, and tossed an imaginary key over his shoulder. Scarlett just smiled and gave a single nod.

“I’ll arrange it,” she said. “How do you want to play it, Vincent? Off the books or on?”

“Is my clearance still active?”

Scarlett shook her head. “I have no idea, you’d have to ask Tseng.”

“You can trust him,” Veld said, anticipating the question. “After all, I’m still standing.”

\--

“We gotta get you some things of your own,” Veld remarked. The tie had proved too much for Vincent’s claw, and so Veld had one arm looped around his friend’s neck, awkwardly knotting the silken strip for him. “At least you look halfway presentable.”

Size-wise, they weren’t far off. Vincent was only an inch or two taller, but was a good deal thinner. Most of his height in his legs, Veld’s trousers were only just long enough. Still, it would have to do.

“I’d say you need a haircut, but it’d be a dead giveaway.”

“I do feel ridiculous,” Vincent admitted.

“I dunno, lots of the kids are wearing their hair long these days. Makes you look like a punk. That’s a good thing.”

Awkwardly, Vincent pushed his bangs out of his face only to have them fall forward again. Veld frowned and turned on his heel.

“What?” Vincent called after him.

“I think there might be a few of Linda’s old...yes!” Grinning in triumph, he held aloft a fistful of fabric-coated elastic bands. “Hair ties. Hold still.”

Obediently, Vincent stood still as Veld combed his hair back and looped the elastic in place. It was a far cry from putting up Felicia’s little pigtails but…

“There, now you can at least see where you’re going.”

“Feels like heading to the enlistment office again.”

Veld smiled. “They’d been foolish to turn you away.”

\--

Despite being “retired”, Veld waltzed up to one of the rear entrances of the Shinra building with Vincent right behind him. The Turks had their own section of the building, though only the other Turks knew its true location. Vincent was reassured to see that it had not moved, and followed Veld through the familiar maze of corridors and conference rooms to and unassuming door marked simply “Electrical”. On the other side of the door, there were indeed electronics, but also a good deal more.

They’d redecorated. Vincent remembered everything being done in burnt orange and faux wood. Now it was all slate blue and acrylic. He wasn’t sure if it was an improvement. The little computers Veld had told him about sat on each desk where several young people in blue suits sat typing away at them. Although the click and clatter of the plastic keyboards was much quieter, he missed the machine gun staccato of the old typewriters. Leading him past the administrative area, Veld knocked on a door at the far end of the room before pushing it open.

“Tseng,” he said, giving a brief salute. The man seated at the wide desk looked up from his own computer and stood. To Vincent’s eyes, he seemed impossibly young. Although his uniform was regulation, long, straight black hair fell past his shoulders. Vincent wondered when the ‘off the collar’ rule had been abolished?

“Veld,” Tseng said, stepping around the desk to shake his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Veld replied, shaking. “You may remember this fellow. I’ve told you enough about him. May I introduce my old partner, Vincent Valentine.”

Tseng blinked, the gawk of surprise so quick that it almost went unnoticed. As if he were being introduced to the president of Shinra and not a complete stranger, he extended his hand. Vincent took it and shook somewhat awkwardly.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you, sir,” Tseng told him as if Vincent were the commanding officer and not the other way around. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Vincent cast Veld a sideways glance, but his friend simply shrugged. “Didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t true.”

Fighting back a smirk, Vincent turned toward the new head of the Turks.

“I need back in,” he said, deciding to cut to the chase. “Is my profile still active?”

“It is now,” Tseng told him, seating himself at the computer again. “We’ll need to take a new photo, but otherwise you should be set. And don’t worry,” he said, anticipating Vincent’s next question, “we’ll keep it quiet.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I know I’m leaving you in good hands,” Veld said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“...you’re not staying?”

Veld shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here as it is. Try not to set anything on fire.”

Vincent grinned. “That was always _your_ department.”

\--

“How would you like to play this, Sir?” Tseng asked from the other side of the row of lockers as Vincent suited up. It felt good to be back in uniform. It felt especially good to be in clothes that fit and that did not belong to somebody else. Fumbling with the tie, he gave Tseng’s question some thought.

He would have no problem filling his old cadre in on what had happened to him, but all except Scarlett and Veld were gone. Palmer knew as well, but it was amazing what that man kept in his head, an innocent smile and cheery disposition hiding it all. These kids- he couldn’t help thinking of them in those terms- didn’t know him from Alex. He didn’t technically _need_ to tell them anything. However, the likelihood of such information leaking to the Science Department was not high. The Turks might have a shady reputation, but they held a fierce loyalty toward one another. He needed them on his side, and the best and quickest way to do that was to tell the truth- or at least, to tell as much of it as they needed to hear.

“Tell them who I am. Tell them what happened- the short version, anyway.” Grumbling a curse, he stepped from behind the bank of lockers, tie tangled hopelessly around his neck.

“May I?” Tseng asked.

“Please. There’s no traction with this thing.” Eyeing his claw, he flexed the fingers a few times. Unperturbed, Tseng stepped forward and knotted the tie with a few expert loops. Vincent got the impression that the bonds that could hold the Turk’s current leader had yet to be invented.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. I’ll inform the others, give you a formal introduction. After that, you’ll want to speak to Elena. She’s our resident tech genius.”

“Alright,” Vincent nodded, snugging the knot more comfortably against his throat. “How do I look?”

Tseng smiled, and reached into his jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, handing Vincent a folded pair of sunglasses. “You’ll want these.”

\--

There were plenty of blue-suited young men and women gathered together, but far fewer than there had been in Vincent’s day. Veld had lamented at length about how the SOLDIER program had virtually taken over what part of the budget wasn’t devoted to weaponry and the science department- a rather sinister combination in both their minds. With SOLDIERs and Sephiroth to do Shinra’s bidding, the Turks had been relegated to the less glamorous tasks. Then again, that was what they were there for, and why they wore plain blue suits and not armor. They were supposed to blend in, function as part of the background, go unnoticed.

“One or two of you may have heard the name before,” Tseng began, addressing the others in a manner more befitting a general giving orders to his troops. “Missing in action for the last twenty-five years, Vincent Valentine has returned to us. At one time, he was partners with our former head, Veld Verdot, and has a service record that I, myself, envy. I know that I can depend upon all of you to give him a proper welcome.”

There were no applause, but Tseng did not seem to expect any, despite such a grand speech. Only a little blond in the front patted her palm rapidly with the fingers of her opposite hand.

“Elena.”

At once she snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“You, Rude, and Reno will assist Mr. Valentine.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Unsuccessfully, Tseng tried to suppress a smile. “At ease.”

“Damn, Elena, calm down,” the redhead told her. Vincent eyed his un-tucked shirt and rumpled jacket critically. _That_ would certainly never have passed muster when Veld was running things.

“Reno,” he said, extending one hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Vincent shook hands, nodding politely but making no reply.

“This’s Rude,” Reno nodded to the tall, dark-skinned man to his right. “Normally he just lets his fists do the talking.”

“Sir,” Rude said, also extending a hand to shake. “It’s a privilege.”

Behind his sunglasses, Vincent did blink at that. Wearing sunglasses himself, it was difficult to decipher Rude’s expression.

“Veld mentioned you,” he explained. “I’ve also read your file. I’m excited to be working with you.”

Reno blinked, evidently taken aback by such a lengthy speech. “Geeze Rude, didn’t realize you were such a fanboy.”

Rude simply shrugged.

“What can we help you with, Mr. Valentine?” The blond was looking up at him, sunglasses pushed back on her head like a hairband. “I’m Elena, by the way.”

Vincent nodded to her politely. “I need to access to some old company files.”

“Easy,” Elena told him with a wave of her hand. “What are you looking for? You’ve got automatic access to just about everything.”

For a moment he stood silent, gauging their expressions. “...what do you three know about the Jenova Project?”

\--


	16. Contageous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...what DID kill the Cetra, anyway?

_  
Everything hurt. Everything. There was not a square inch of his body that was not burning with pain. Vincent almost wanted to go back to sleep. Almost. Sleep meant facing the anger that did not belong to him, the voice and the presence that took up so much space. Even pain was better than that, and so Vincent dragged his eyes open._

_The lights were off, but the room still felt too bright. The bare white walls and rails on the bed meant “infirmary” in his mind. He must have been injured. But how? Mind as abused as his body, the memory could not be found. Perhaps it was just as well. He got the feeling that would be painful too._

_Light stabbed his eyes as the door opposite his bed slid open. A tall figure stood silhouetted for a moment before the door slid shut again._

_“Vincent?”_

_He knew that voice. Where had he heard it before?_

_“Vincent, it’s Gast. You awake?”_

_Even turning his head took entirely too much effort, his brain seeming to slosh inside his skull with the motion. The room swirled sickeningly and Vincent scrunched his eyes closed._

_“Can you hear me?”_

_Vincent tried to answer, but no words came. Perhaps his throat was too dry, or his jaw too sore. Maybe he’d simply forgotten how to speak._

_“Hojo left you in that damn pod too long… Makou poisoning’s no fun, but at least you won’t die from it.”_

_Trying to hold Gast in focus, Vincent managed a soft grunt._

_“Vincent? You in there?”_

_He tried to grunt again but wound up coughing. His throat stung with each hack, dry and burning as a campfire. A large hand eased behind his neck, the rim of a cup touched his lips. Vincent tried to drink, but wound up spilling most of it down his chin. The water felt and tasted heavenly and he tried to gulp as much as he could before Gast took the cup away._

_“Easy,” Gast cautioned, mopping his face and throat with a towel. “Too much and you’ll make yourself sick, and we’ve already had enough of that.”_

_Vincent hadn’t any idea what Gast was talking about, but decided to take his word for it. Holding his eyes open had become too great an effort, and he let them drift shut. Distantly, he felt Gast pat his shoulder._

_“Just rest,” the older man told him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

_\--_

_Hours went by, or perhaps it was weeks. Vincent had no way to tell, but every time he opened his eyes, Gast was indeed there. The pain had finally dissipated to the point where he could move at least a little without the room spinning, leaving behind it a fatigue so heavy that Vincent was sure it would press him through the mattress and onto the floor._

_“Any better?” Gast asked him. “Hojo wanted to chuck you in the pod again but...I thought you’d had enough of that. You’d heal faster, but it’d take a long time for the makou saturation to wear off.”_

_Vincent managed a low “Mm…” to at least indicate that he was listening. The tangle of tubes leading from his right arm to a series of bottles suspended upsidedown was rather disquieting, but not half so much as the one sticking out of his neck._

_“Calm down,” Gast soothed when he began to squirm. He didn’t get very far, his wrist secured to the bedrail by a strip of cotton. “It’s all right. We were running out of places to put things, that’s all. I know it looks gross, but just try not to touch it, okay?”_

_“What...happened…?” Vincent rasped, throat still raw and sandy. Gast helped him take a few sips of water before replying._

_“I was hoping you could tell me. Hojo mentioned an accident in the lab, but…”_

_An accident? Yes, there had been an accident. Something to do with guns, he thought. Not his gun. Someone else’s. He remembered the sting of the uncommonly large slug as it entered at almost point-blank range, the impact so great that he’d been knocked flat on his back. Someone had shot him, but he could not remember who or why._

_“Do you remember anything?”_

_The Anger stirred, and Vincent winced, trying to shy away._

_“Vincent?”_

_The Anger roared, stretched, the blackness expanding, crushing him down and out of the way. Not knowing what else to do, he tried to make himself as small as possible, keeping well away from the rage that was not his._

_\--_

_“I TOLD you he’s violent,” Hojo insisted. “He ought to be sedated.”_

_“Hojo, he can barely talk let alone move. You left him in the pod too long.”_

_“I was only trying to help! It was an accident, what happened. I told you he was helping me with that old revolver and it just went off. Lu and I did what we could for him. We couldn’t save his arm, but at least he’s still standing.”_

_Gast had to admit that the materia implant was… Brilliant? Insane? If nothing else, it had proven effective. It was the kind of thing Lucrecia would think of; so outside-of-the-box that it sounded laughable, and yet it had worked. Vincent was still breathing. That was his chief accomplishment at the moment._

_“I’m not sure ‘standing’ is the word,” Gast remarked dryly. “What on earth did you give him?”_

_“He’d expressed an interest in helping with the project,” Hojo said evasively. “I only gave him a few cc’s of Jenova, barely a fraction of what Sephiroth got in-utero.”_

_‘And look where that got you,’ Gast thought, but held his tongue. Hojo was...sensitive about his scientific failures, and it would just be cruel to rub salt in this particular wound. The problem with Hojo was that he didn’t seem to understand that the scientific method, by definition, meant discovering ninety-nine ways to do something wrong before you figured out how to do it right- which was why they kept so many mice on hand. The younger scientist was too eager to rush ahead, to jump to the testing phase before half the theory was even worked out. Lucrecia had had a certain amount of rashness as well, but at least she had plotted it all out on paper first._

_“I wish you’d told me about this,” Gast began, trying to find a way to phrase things that would not insult the other man’s pride. “I might have been able to help. He’s got a summon materia powering his circulatory system. What sort of data did you have to go on? How’s that affecting his normal processes?”_

_“I was unaware I needed your permission to conduct my own experiments,” Hojo replied frostily. “I can present a copy of my findings once they’ve been typed.”_

_Gast forced a smile, fighting to remain cordial. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”_

_“Excuse me, Professor?” Ifalna stood awkwardly in the doorway. Although her posture and expression appeared calm, all color had fled from her face._

_“Yes?” both men answered at once._

_“Gast,” she amended. “I… I think you ought to see this…”_

_Without further explanation, she went down the hall. Gast followed at once, Hojo a moment later despite having not been invited. She stopped short at Vincent’s room, hovering anxiously at the threshold._

_“What’s the matter?” Gast asked her. Ifalna glanced through the doorway as if afraid the Turk might spring out of bed and shoot her at any moment._

_“...look at his arm.”_

_Taking a step forward, Gast made to enter the room, but she caught his sleeve, holding him back._

_“Don’t go in!” she hissed. “Just look.”_

_The urgency of her tone made him step back and squint from the doorway just as she had done. Little more than a stub remained of Vincent’s left arm, but the right was still intact if riddled with IV tubing. One tube penetrated the back of his hand, a second his wrist, and a third the inside of his elbow. With no other veins to spare, a fourth IV line had been placed in his neck. The arm looked normal enough to-- Wait. Gast squinted, leaning as far forward as he dared. What he had thought was a bruise from the original injection had expanded. A muddy brown stain had spread over Vincent’s bicep with smaller patches trailing down his arm toward his hand. The sleeve and collar of the hospital smock covered his chest and shoulder, but there did not seem to be any of the ugly, dishwater stains on his neck._

_“What is that?” he asked, not expecting an answer._

_“A virus...” Ifalna whispered, voice trembling. “There are mentions of a plague that wiped out the Ancients, a curse from the stars.”_

_“Then why the hell does Vincent have it?”_

_Ifalna shook her head. “I don’t know.”_

_The only reason Gast could think of was the materia. Lucrecia had implanted Chaos in Vincent’s chest, a guardian associated with destruction and decay. Perhaps it was expecting too much for the younger man to recover when he carried the essence of the god of death inside him?_

_“Quarantine his room,” Gast ordered. “Level three bio-hazard. No one goes in without full HAZMAT gear.”_

_“What kind of treatment do you suggest?” the tone was only mildly sarcastic, which meant Hojo was being serious. Turning, Gast faced the younger scientist who had come up to join them in the hallway._

_“There is no treatment,” Ifalna said, wringing her hands nervously. “There’s nothing we can do for him. He’s going to die. We just have to keep the virus contained so it doesn’t infect anyone else.”_

_“No one’s going to die,” Gast assured her, resting one hand on her shoulder. “We have all sorts of advances that the Ancients didn’t; antibiotics, surgery, technology. He’ll be alright.”_

_Ifalna tried to smile, but didn’t look as if she believed him._

_\--_

_This was not, Hojo reflected, the first time he’d killed the Turk. Whether or not he’d _stay_ dead this time, he had no idea. Pulling the sheet up over the still, white face was difficult, the thick rubber gloves hampering his dexterity. This particular autopsy would be tricky, considering that the corpse was now classifiable as toxic waste. Since the Turk’s death was viewed by Gast and Ifalna as his fault, Hojo had been given the task of examining and then disposing of the body._

_Night had long since fallen outside the wide windows of the Shinra building. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago by the time Hojo wheeled the corpse out of the isolation room and down the area that served as the morgue. Wrestling the Turk’s lanky body onto the slab was still no small task, even if he was several pounds lighter. It had taken him more than a week to die; a tedious and painful business for all parties involved. Ifalna, a deeply religious woman for a scientist, had stood outside his door and prayed, administering last rights from a distance. Perhaps it made her feel better. It certainly hadn’t done the Turk any good._

_The ugly brown stains had spread, eventually climbing up the Turk’s neck and onto his face. He looked as if he’d lost a fight with a mud puddle, the lesions stinking and running like soil after a storm. Although the stains had not reached his heart, he’d succumbed anyway, as Ifalna had said he would. His temperature had climbed to nearly 110 before something inside had given out and the Turk had closed his eyes and slowly stopped breathing._

_“Subject is an adult male, twenty-eight, cause of death….undetermined,” Hojo began, narrating into the tape recorder. “Multiple brown-black lesions all over the body. Heart notably untouched. Lesions stop a good three or four inches from site.”_

_Now that he was dead, the Turk was unlikely to need that materia. Indeed, the stone had lost much of its glow once the spirit had passed. Taking a scalpel from the tray, Hojo pierced the heavy scar tissue holding it in place._

_On the table, the Turk inhaled sharply._

_A soprano shriek and the clatter of spilled implements were documented by the recorder, before Hojo could collect himself. Happily, the Turk- apparently still alive- showed no signs of attempting to get up, or of transforming. Cautiously, Hojo edged forward and plucked the scalpel out. Blood, as dark and discolored as the stains on his skin, trickled from the wound._

_‘The experiment is not yet finished…’ The words whispered in the back of Hojo’s head._

_“No,” he agreed, “it isn’t.”  
_

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, playing a bit with both Ifalna's stories of how her ancestors died, and also with the concept of Geostigma from "Advent Children". The movie, to my mind, doesn't give a great explanation as to what Geostigma really is. Here, it's a body's inability to process Jenova. In Vincent's case, he's not just unable to accept Jenova's cells, his body actively rejects them. It's not fun.


	17. Analog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the dawn of the Digital Age, but there's still a crap ton of paper.

“Search the database, he says. Ask the tech expert, he says. My specialty is _digital_ ,” Elena complained. “ _Why_ is all this stuff on _paper_?!”

“Because computers at that time were only good for crunching numbers, not storing data,” Vincent told her, deadpan.

“I know that!” she snapped, and then remembered herself. “Sorry. I just…” A frustrated noise escaped her clenched teeth.

“You did fine,” he assured her, scanning the endless catacombs of shelves that was the Shinra archives. Everything coated in dust an inch thick, it reminded him- rather unpleasantly- of the basement of the Shinra mansion back in Nibelheim. Chaos didn’t seem too fussed, and Gallian was alert but not actively detecting danger. Maskha, however, was crying despite Gigas’ best attempts to comfort her.

 _Not too much longer,_ he promised, hoping he could keep his word.

“Man, there’s a lot of shit down here,” Reno remarked, the beam of his flashlight swinging past the thousands of identical file boxes. “Elena, what’s the shelf number again?”

“Corridor E, 17th row, shelf 5, box 673774,” she replied.

“I think I found it.”

All of them gathered around the indicated space. Easily the tallest, Vincent stretched and pulled the box down, the weight betraying its contents before he’d removed the lid.

“It’s empty.”

“The hell?” Reno asked.

“But that’s impossible!” Elena cried, genuinely dismayed.

Reno scowled at the empty box, perplexed. “Is any of this stuff marked to be scanned?”

Elena shook her head. “No, they’re not bothering with anything that goes back more than twenty years. If it’s not already on microfilm they’re going to…” she trailed off, a look of horror on her face.

“Going to what?” Vincent prompted.

“Destroy it. All this old stuff is going to be fed to the incinerator.”

For a long moment, they stood silent. At length, Vincent spoke: “Reno, Rude, check the surrounding boxes. Elena, run back upstairs and pull everything you can about the SOLDIER program from twenty years on back.”

“Uh, okay,” she replied, giving an awkward salute and hurrying back upstairs.

“SOLDIER?” Rude asked, one eyebrow quirked.

“Just a hunch,” Vincent told him, pulling down another box. This one was not empty, but had been filled with the pages of old newspapers, none of which seemed to be in order or concerning anything important. Reno turned up three similar boxes, and Rude found several that were either empty or full of garbage. One was even filled with dirty magazines.

“Somebody beat us to it,” Reno observed, taking out one of the magazines and paging through it. Summoning his best commanding officer scowl, Vincent plucked the offending literature out of his and hand.

“Hollander?” Rude suggested. “It was his life’s goal to copy Hojo’s work.”

“Hollander?” Vincent echoed, unfamiliar with the name.

“Some old dude,” Reno began. “Er, no offense. He was Hojo’s protegee back in the day, but he’s more famous for his screwups than his successes. I think Hojo only kept him around ‘cause Hollander made him look good. He was in charge of something called Project G.”

“May I assume that you’ve already pulled everything on Project G?”

Rude nodded. “What we had. Like the Jenova Project files, there were some documents missing.”

“That’s not suspicious,” Vincent remarked dryly.

“Yeah, no shit,” Reno agreed. “We’ve torn the place apart looking for the records, but we figure Hollander stole ‘em. You think maybe he stole these too?”

Vincent shook his head. “Unlikely. The dust down here was undisturbed. Whoever stole these files did so some time ago. Also, let me see the rest of those rags.”

“Thought you said we were on duty, boss?”

“We are. Look at the issue dates.”

“Just the issue dates?” Reno asked hopefully, crouching to help dig through the pile of magazines. Vincent could not help rolling his eyes but made no further comment. Officially, this kind of behaviour was not sanctioned, but there was little one could do to stop it. Vincent supposed there were worse ways for Reno to spend his time than ogling pictures or women now old enough to be his mother.

Apparently Reno had come to similar conclusions for he made a face once he realized how old the magazine was. “Aw man, that kinda kills it,” he whined. “This one’s close to twenty years old- and I don’t mean the model. Hell, her hair alone gives it away.”

Vincent had to admit he hadn’t seen many women wandering around with their hair starched and piled on top of their heads like that since...waking up. Twenty years. That would have been around the same time… Vincent shook his head to clear the sudden noise, the stab of panic.

 _Calm down, everybody calm down,_ he thought, trying to soothe the others. Gallian continued growling, and if anything Maskha’s sobs had gotten louder.

Evidently he was not the only thing that had been locked away for safe keeping.

The clatter of high-heels on the cement floor made them all look up. A moment later, Elena rounded the corner, notebook in hand.

“The SOLDIER stuff is down on the other side of the archives with the other military files. However, I don’t know how much we’ll find. The access log said someone was down here earlier poking around.”

“Lazard?” Rude asked. Elena nodded.

“Probably.”

“Who?” Vincent blinked.

“Head of SOLDIER,” Reno supplied. “He ain’t been runnin’ the show that long. Met him once or twice. He’s an okay guy for military.”

Vincent nodded. “Let’s go see what we can find.”

\--

“Most of the SOLDIER stuff is on the company database,” Elena explained as they rummaged through the endless shelves dedicated to the military elite. “Even the older stuff has been scanned to PDF. However, like the science department, most of that screeches to a halt somewhere around the twenty year mark. I dunno why. We’ve got a couple of originals who are still in ranks; guys like Sephiroth for instance.”

“He’s probably got his own special shelf,” Reno chuckled. Vincent blinked, having not thought of that.

“Does he?” he asked.

Elena shook her head. “Not that I could find. Anything on Sephiroth is like nine kinds of classified. Even we don’t know the full story on him.”

 _I do,_ Vincent thought. “I imagine like the paper files, anything in the computer is either going to be incomplete or redacted.”

“Eh,” she shrugged, as if Vincent had mentioned that there might be rain that day. “I could probably hack into the files if I knew where to look.”

Thoughts racing, Vincent shook his head. “I don’t think they’d be so foolish as to store something like that on a computer, or even on paper…”

“Then where would they put it?” Reno wanted to know.

There was only one place Vincent could think of.

\--

 

It was not necessary for Elena to “hack” anything for him. Hojo’s employee profile was open to anyone with a high enough clearance. The hardest part, if Vincent were honest with himself, was trying to figure out how to manipulate the various parts of the computer. The mouse took some getting used to, but the keyboard at least was familiar but his claw made typing tricky. Vincent decided he rather liked the “backspace” feature. It was a lot easier than using liquid paper. After checking Hojo’s timecard- he was still punched-in, and apparently had been for days- he tucked the address into his pocket and left.

He’d been issued a PHS- he already forgot what the letters stood for- that had been pre-programed with hundreds of phone numbers, all organized by name. Veld’s was among them. It had taken a few tries, but Elena had managed to explain the basics of the thing to him. Thumbing down to Veld’s number, Vincent pressed the button, not truly expecting anything to happen. Phones without cords, small enough to fit in your pocket. Who would have ever thought?

“Hello?” Veld’s voice was clear despite the lack of cord or outlet.

“It’s Vincent.”

“Yeah, I saw the caller ID. What’s up?”

Right. Of course. “I’ve got a job. I need some help.”

Veld’s voice was wary, yet intrigued. “What kind of job?”

“Wanna pull a heist?”

 

\--

 

Rather than take the train, they walked to the old apartment block listed on Vincent’s piece of paper. It wasn’t all that far from Veld’s private detection agency. Immediately below the plate that held up the Shinra building and all the nicest shops and dwellings was considered prime real estate. Below the obscene rent prices of above-plate, but high enough above the slums that the crime rate wasn’t too terrible.

“You’d think with what he makes, he could afford a nicer place,” Veld observed, eyeing the decaying building with some distaste.

“I’ve seen his time card,” Vincent replied. “I don’t think he’s here much.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

The best time to infiltrate a target was not, in fact, during the dead of night under cover of darkness. Instead, it was somewhere around two in the afternoon while everyone was still at work and the entire building was empty. As such, Veld and Vincent were neither seen nor remarked upon as they entered the building and climbed the stairs. The door secured with only a key lock and deadbolt might as well have been left wide open, for all the deterrent it posed to a pair of Turks.

“Well,” Veld remarked upon shoving the door open, “that’s not what I was expecting.”

The apartment screamed “bachelor pad”, but not in any of the typical ways. There was no laundry lying about, no unwashed dishes left in strange places. Instead, there were large stacks of books on almost every available surface. The decor was familiar enough to Vincent’s eye that he knew it had to be horribly out-dated. The sofa- a blocky piece of upholstery the same shade of green as pea soup- was rumpled enough to show comparatively recent use. The kitchen was strangely bare, only a venerable hot pot sitting dust-free and half-full of water. There was nothing worth remarking upon in the bathroom, which left only the bedroom.

“Damn,” Veld commented, “he didn’t even try.”

The missing files were stacked around the neatly made double bed, packaged in file boxes that were easily as old as those in the Shinra archives, but a completely different make. While Shinra’s were a uniform dark green, these- for some inexplicable reason- had been printed to resemble wood paneling. None of them were labeled, despite the white square stamped on each box for just such a purpose. Removing the lids proved that the documents inside were indeed what they’d been searching for; all of the oldest records concerning both SOLDIER and the Jenova project.

“Well, that’s the company goods, but where’s the horde?” Veld wanted to know.

Vincent scanned the the otherwise sparsely furnished room. There wasn’t much there besides a dresser and the closet. Opening the top drawer, Vincent shut it again immediately. A faint whiff of lavender lingered in the air even after he’d shoved the drawer closed. A hand on his shoulder made him start, but it was only Veld, sympathy more deeply lining his already creased face.

“Go check the closet in the living room, I’ll see if there’s anything to be found in here.”

Glad not to have to rummage through Lucy’s old things- it had been twenty-five years, why were they still lying there untouched?- Vincent retreated back to the book-filled living room. The closet contained nothing exciting. Even going through the pockets of the winter coats hanging inside yielded nothing.

“Vin,” Veld called from the other room. “I got something. You’re not gonna like it, but I got something.”

“What is it?”

Heading back into the bedroom, Vincent helped Veld wrestle an old cardboard moving box out of the closet.

“Paydirt.”

A pair of bulky old plastic suitcases had been shoved, forgotten, to the back of the closet. Both of them proved to be empty, but they didn’t stay that way for long. Pulling them out, Veld and Vincent began filling them with the contents of the file boxes. There was just enough room.

“Anyone asks,” Vincent grunted, hefting the moving box and one suitcase into his arms, “you can tell them you’re helping your new roommate move in.”

Veld grinned. “You mean I’m not?”

“...seriously?”

“May as well,” Veld shrugged. “That second bedroom’s got nobody in it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. C’mon, let’s clear out before our resident mad doctor decides today is the one day a month he’ll come home.”


	18. Memoire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Probable Cause, no warrant, and a lot of evidence.

Habit rather than curiosity dictated they go through the company files first. Six file boxes; four SOLDIER, two Jenova Project, and the moving box. Veld volunteered to sift through its contents, but Vincent shook his head.

“I’m not made of glass,” he insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

“You always were a horrible liar,” Veld commented.

“For a Turk,” Vincent finished. Both smiled, and began sifting through the box’s contents.

Unlike the company files, everything was dumped haphazardly as if to get it out of the way. Veld had expected a box full of Lucrecia’s things, but her underclothes and handkerchiefs, blouses and stockings had still been neatly folded in the dresser in Hojo’s apartment, her skirts, slacks, and jackets still hanging in the closet if shoved toward the back. As near as he could tell, nothing had been disturbed.

“What is all this?” Vincent asked, pulling out a shoebox full of opened greeting cards and envelopes of photographs. Veld said nothing, only continued to pull objects out of the box and place them in a growing pile on the coffee table. A bunch of dried flowers tied with a discolored silk ribbon, a blender still in the box, a miniature afghan done in pale blue yarn and wrapped in tissue, a silver cup with lines for a name and a birthday that had never been engraved, the box of photos and cards. At what Veld had thought was the bottom lay an ivory-colored dress, it’s full petticoats badly crushed.

“Two of life’s biggest events,” he remarked, gently shaking the dress out. “Marriage and a baby.”

Vincent said nothing. Pulling the box of photos onto his lap, he began shuffling through them. Setting the gown aside, Veld watched him carefully.

“...you don’t have to do this,” he said softly.

Vincent shook his head. “It wasn’t that she chose him. If she was happy, I didn’t mind.”

“Remember what I said about you lying?”

That earned him the ghost of a smile. “At least she was happy.”

“Yeah,” Veld replied, not knowing what else to say. It was all water under the bridge, just like Linda and Felicia. There was hope, just a glimmer, but it was there. Even still, there was no point in beating oneself up over something that couldn’t be changed. Playing the hero was a young man’s game, he knew that now. Vincent, however, was still young. Maybe there was still time for him to put at least part of this to rights. Which reminded him…

“Why did you want all this stuff, anyway?”

“We found the other half of Hojo’s hoard in Nibelheim. I’m guessing they left in panic and didn’t bother to pack anything up, assuming they’d be back. Either that or it was planted, but I’m not sure I give Shinra that much credit.”

Veld snorted at that, sharing his opinion. “But?”

“But they sent Sephiroth out there to find it, to find that thing in the reactor. They’ll be expecting something out of him. I don’t want him to have to report back empty handed.”

“...so all this is for him?”

“Yes.”

For a long moment, Veld was silent. “...do you think that’s wise?”

Vincent looked up, red eyes glowing, fixing him with a surprisingly intense stare. “I think he deserves to know where he came from.”

Veld thought about that and then nodded. “That’s fair. So how are you going to get all this to him?”

“...would it be okay if he came here?”

Veld blinked. “Yeah, I guess. He don’t know me from Alex. Can’t imagine he’d care too much about my wrinkled old neck.”

Refolding the gown, he went to return it to the box but stopped short. Several file folders, their contents spilled and mingled lay on the bottom. Below those were several film cassettes, and a couple of notebooks. Frowning, Veld retrieved the files and began to page through them.

“This is Lucy’s work,” he said, examining one page filled with her neat, looping handwriting. “Her thesis on materia and guardian spirits.”

“Journals…” Vincent said, opening one of the notebooks and then closing it with a snap. “Scientific,” he amended at Veld’s look of concern.

“I think I still got a camera in the closet that’ll play these,” Veld remarked.

“I’m going to have Elena convert all this anyway. We need to have more than one copy.”

Veld nodded. “Yeah, none of this should be forgotten.”

\--

 

It had taken the better part of the night to go through the moving boxes as well as the files. Elena would be bringing her laptop- a computer even smaller than the desktop- and something called an ‘external’, whatever that was, tomorrow. She would be copying the information and saving it to her computer. The information in those files was too important, too dangerous to be lost.

Veld had retired, exhausted, but Vincent’s mind was too full to sleep. Not that he wanted to sleep. He’d slept too long anyway, and he wasn’t tired. Everyone had their own way of dealing with the pressures of the job. Some went to the firing range, others the bar, still others the Honey Bee Inn, and a few went to all three. Among his cadre, there had still been a lonely handful who sought absolution for their sins. Vincent had been one of them. No one, it seemed, paid much attention to the old gods anymore. Everything was electronic; technology, science, computers and makou power. Midgar itself had had a sacred spot at one time, but like the original names of the eight towns that had once clustered around it, no one remembered.

There was still the remains of a church in sector 5. It required a long walk through the slums, but Vincent was not afraid. Indeed, any would-be hoodlums had infinitely more to fear from him. The lower he went, the rougher things became, until the buildings more strongly resembled children’s play houses made out of scraps of whatever was handy. In contrast, the church stood more or less intact near the city wall. A thin strip of starry sky was just visible between the top of the wall and the bottom of the plate. Why the wall? Why the plate? Was Shinra afraid everyone would escape? Then again perhaps it was just as well the desolation of the city was kept inside its barrier of concrete and steel. 

Although he’d never known a church door to be locked, Vincent was still a bit surprised when it swung open on rusty hinges. There was no one there, which was unsurprising. Although the interior was pitch black, Vincent picked his way around the crumbling pews and bits of debris as if the stained glass windows were glowing with light. Immediately before the altar lay a carpet of sorts; upon closer inspection he noted that it was actually an enormous bed of wildflowers. The floor had rotted away, exposing the soil beneath. Evidently this church had no crypt. Chapels dedicated to Alexander rarely did. The faded remains of a warrior's cross were painted on the wall above what remained of the altar. Carefully picking his way around the flowers and the broken floor, Vincent approached the altar and knelt.

In the back of his head, Gigas took note, Maskha crossed herself and dropped to her knees. Gallian opened one eye, sighed, and went back to sleep. Farther back, and more worrisome, Chaos had awoken and was watching. Vincent did his best to ignore him.

 _Science and faith,_ his father’s words echoed in his head, _the two don’t have to be separated. Every time you begin a new experiment, it’s an act of faith. You don’t know for sure that you’ll be able to prove anything, but you try just the same. That takes faith._

He’d heard that speech many times. Even then people had dismissed such remarks as eccentricities. Gast had been of a similar mind, but his faith had overrun his common sense. However, he was not the only one who’d been guilty of that. Everyone had plenty to attone for, especially himself.

Leaning his flesh arm on his knee, he bowed his head.

_Forgive me…_

\--

 

Dawn sent sunlight slanting through the church’s broken roof, making fairy lights of color among the blossoms as it shone through the surviving panes of the windows. Head still lowered, Vincent did not notice. The approaching footsteps, however, did catch his ears.

“Oh…” a voice faltered, young and small. “Excuse me…”

Standing, Vincent turned and looked at her. The girl started, expression fearful, and took a step back. In one hand she carried a long-handled rake, in the other a battered box of gardening tools.

“I...I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She probably couldn’t see it behind his collar, but Vincent gave her what he hoped was a benign smile and inclined his head politely.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me! I just… I thought… Well, not many people come here. Not to pray anyway.”

“What do they come here for?”

“To stay warm, mostly,” she began with a shrug. “Drunks, homeless people, you know.”

“There a problem?”

Vincent blinked as a second person emerged from the shadows. “Zack?”

The younger man’s gawk of surprise split into a grin. “Hey Vincent, what are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“Zack’s helping me with the flowers today,” Aeris spoke up. “Are you a friend of Zack’s? Are you in SOLDIER too?”

The smile snuck up on him, as did the brief chuckle in his throat. “Something like that, but I’m not a SOLDIER.”

“Nah, he’s a Turk,” Zack added. Vincent shot him a look. “What?”

Aeris shrank back towards Zack somewhat. “...did Tseng send you?”

“No,” Vincent shook his head. “I’m off duty.”

“Never heard of a Turk in a church before…” she mused.

“There are stranger things,” he told her, fighting back the smile. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

Skirting the flower bed, he headed for the doors by way of one of the side aisles.

“It was nice meeting you,” Aeris called after him.

Once the doors had closed behind him, Aeris turned to Zack.

“Is he always like that?”

“Like what? You mean tall, dark, and brooding? Yeah.”

She shook her head. “No, he seemed so sad. And there was something...I dunno...different about him…”

Not unused to Aeris’ gnomic observations, Zack just shrugged. Vincent’s secrets were not his to disclose, whether his Ancient girlfriend was picking up on them or not.

“He’s older than he looks,” he told her, looping an arm around her shoulders. “He’s seen a lot of action. Not all scars are on the outside.”

“...I guess.”

\--


	19. Betrothed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always awkward when your parents try to set you up.

“Before you go, I’d like you to meet someone.”

Sephiroth looked up, pausing in the midst of shrugging back into his coat. Having had to suffer an hour-long full work-up from Professor Hojo, he was ready to sprint out the door. Preferably straight to the showers. The lab might smell antiseptic, and everyone might be wearing latex gloves, but it still left his skin crawling with a feeling of filth. He had thought he might learn to better endure the examinations as he got older, but it seemed the older he got, the more invasive they became. All he wanted to do was leave by the most expedient means possible, so of course the Professor wanted him to stay for tea and a chat.

“Who?”

“This way.”

Buckling the clasp, he followed the Professor out of the main lab and down the hall. Sephiroth was more than familiar with the 67th floor. He’d grown up here. This part of the lab was where his own room had once been. Indeed, Professor Hojo stopped short outside the same door that Sephiroth had once thought of as his.

“You’re nearly thirty,” the Professor went on. “It’s time you started thinking about taking a wife.”

Too stunned to make a retort, Sephiroth just stood there. The Professor slid his keycard through the lock and the door slid away with a hiss. Inside was a young girl. She stood up at once, facing them, eyes wide but posture braced for a fight. Wait a minute. Wasn’t this…?

“Sephiroth, I’d like you to meet Aeris. She’ll be working with us from now on.”

Sephiroth blinked. Why on earth was Zack’s girlfriend here?

“I’ll just leave you two to get better acquainted,” Hojo remarked, stepping outside. Sephiroth turned, but the door had already slid shut. Trying to open it did no good, and Sephiroth mentally cursed. A muffled sob made him turn. The girl stood backed up against the edge of the bed, watching him, terrified.

Zack was right, she was cute; pleasant to look at. Ulike Tifa, she was long and willowy, tall for a woman with a slender build. Still adolescent skinny under the faded blue sundress, her knees and elbows made sharp angles in her limbs. A pair of battered pink sandals stood neatly side-by-side just under the bed, the strap of one clearly broken. In her hair, was the pink ribbon. Typical Zack. Did she know that the gift was more than just a simple strip of satin? Able to nullify most handicaps, ribbons were among the most prized accessories for fighters,. She might not know it, but he’d been thinking of her safety even then.

“Aeris,” he said, inclining his head politely. Amazingly, she dropped a small curtsey. Sephiroth fought a smile.

“General…” Her voice was pinched with nerves, but the word came out steady.

And that left them with little more to say. They stared at one another awkwardly, each in their own way unnerved by the other. Not for the first time, Sephiroth wondered what Shinra in general and Hojo in particular were playing at? Why in the name of all things holy had they snatched this poor girl off the streets? Because that was surely what had happened. The dress was a bit rumpled, as if she’d slept in it, and there were bruises lingering on her arms, and one on her cheek. Then he noticed her eyes- brilliant makou-green just like his own- and it clicked. Aeris inhaled sharply, seemingly able to read his thoughts. Holding up one hand to keep her silent, he glanced about the room with only his eyes, never turning his head.

The dimensions of the room had not changed, but everything else had. The walls had been repainted a soft, creamy white, the tile floor replaced with some sort of wood laminate and covered with a wide braided rug. Although he remembered his furniture being made of aluminum tubes, everything now was built of wood. There was a shelf with books, a vase full of flowers on the night table, a gilded mirror on the wall, and a quilt on the bed. Had he not known better, he might have thought he’d stepped into her bedroom at home. Perhaps it was a reproduction of that very space? A careful recreation of her natural habitat. That told Sephiroth two things: that Aeris had been in Shinra’s sites for a while, and that they were not planning to let her go any time soon.

If memory served, there was a camera mounted in the corner behind him where the walls and ceiling met. It had a view of everything except the far half of the bed and the attached wash room. Whether or not it was rigged for audio, he didn’t know, but he’d have to take a chance. What had Zack said her full name was? That’s right...

“Miss Gainsborough,” he began, stepping toward her. She edged away, the backs of her knees connecting with the edge of the bed and bringing her down onto it with a muffled thud. Leaning back on her elbows, she looked up at him in undisguised terror. It took him a minute to make the intuitive leap, and once he had, it was hard to check the surge of outrage. She honestly thought he was going to attack her, to force himself on her. And why shouldn’t she think that? All most people knew about him concerned his skill in battle, and the unholy body count he’d left behind him in Wutai. Remembering himself, he took a half step back and dropped to one knee. Aeris blinked at that, eventually daring to sit up. They were almost eye-to-eye like this, her head a handwidth higher than his. Reaching, Sephiroth took her hand.

“I am truly sorry about this, Miss Gainsborough,” he told her, voice barely above a mumble. She blinked, fear fading to confusion.

“Keep your voice low,” he cautioned. “I know they’re watching us, I don’t know if they can hear us as well.”

Mutely, she nodded.

“Do you know what Professor Hojo has in mind for us?”

Another nod.

“Do you know why?”

At this, she looked away, hiding the glitter of her green eyes. “He thinks I’m an Ancient,” she whispered.

“He thinks I am too,” Sephiroth told her, unable to check a sardonic smile. The girl blinked and, unbelievably, smiled back.

“Are you?”

He shook his head. “No, though not for lack of trying.”

Amazingly, she giggled softly, much of the tension evaporating with the noise.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he promised. “I’ll tell Zack that you’re here, and that you’re safe.”

“Am I?” she asked.

Sephiroth had to think about that. If he left her here, she’d be at the tender mercies of the Shinra science department. Hojo, as its head, made all the rules. If he wanted something done with this beautiful new specimen, no one was going to tell him ‘no’.

“I need you to play along,” he began, speaking as the plan formed. “We need to get you off this floor. I can’t protect you while you’re here.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“You know what the Professor wants from us.” It was not a question.

Blushing, she nodded and looked down, uncomfortable. “I… I can’t…”

“I won’t ask you,” he assured her. “But I do need you to help me help you.”

“Okay…” she faltered.

“I’m going to kiss your cheek,” he warned. He felt her stiffen as he leaned in, brace herself as if for a blow. He barely grazed the soft skin with his lips, knowing that even this was a betrayal of Zack’s trust.

“I will take you down to my quarters,” he murmured into her ear. “There are cameras, but not in the bedroom. I’m going to call Zack, tell him to stand guard. Cloud will come to help him and bring an extra uniform. You will exit dressed like an infantryman. Cloud will escort you out of the building. From there, you must run. Do not go home, do not collect your things, do not talk to anyone, just _run_. Do not stop for anything. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she whispered, and put her arms around him, pulling him close. “Thank you.”

The hug caught him off guard, making him start slightly. After a heartbeat, he let himself relax a bit, returning the gentle pressure of her arms around his neck. Pulling back, he gave her a what he hoped was a reassuring smile. To think this was what the Professor had been trying to create artificially. All this time, she’d been under his very nose. The smile curled into a smirk and the nervous expression returned to her face.

“I was just thinking,” he told her, “how clever you must be. The Professor’s been searching for a Cetra for a long time, and you’ve been hiding in plain sight.”

Her eyes grew wide at the mention of her people’s proper name.

“He kidnapped me and my mother,” she told him softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I was very small. Just a baby. My father died trying to protect us. Professor Hojo shot him himself. We were held in this lab until I was seven. My mother and I escaped but...she died. She was hurt trying to protect me and…”

She sniffed, her eyes welling up. Collecting both her hands, Sephiroth held them in his.

“I’m sorry, Aeris,” and he meant it. Reaching, he cupped her cheek with one hand, his black glove covering almost half her face. She sniffed and looked up at this, green eyes wide and wary. Something tickled at the back of his memory. She reminded him of someone, something about the auburn ringlets and makou-green eyes, but the reference would not come.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Ifalna.”

The bottom dropped out of Sephiroth’s stomach, his hand falling away.

“...and your father?”

“Faremis. Faremis Gast. He worked for Shinra at one time.”

The feeling was not unlike being concussed with a large and heavy object. His head hurt, his vision swam, black spots dancing before his eyes. A hundred jagged shards of memory snapped into place and he bit back a cry of pain, Aeris’ own exclamation finally bringing him back to the present.

“You’re hurting me…” she whimpered, trying to tug her hands free.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, still dazed and unsteady. It was as well he’d been kneeling on the carpet. Had he been standing, he might have fallen. “It’s just that...I knew your father, and your mother too.”

Aeris blinked at this.

“Professor Gast was a great man. I will never forget his kindness.”

“Is he the one who taught you?”

“Pardon?”

“Is my father the one who taught you to be kind?”

Sephiroth tilted his head at her, still confused. Aeris smiled for him, the expression sad, almost pitying.

“I didn’t believe Zack at first when he told me how nice you were. I didn’t think he would lie to me, but now I know he was telling the truth.”

Heat rushed into his face, and Sephiroth found he had to look away, unable to hold her gaze. Patting her hands, he stood.

“Come with me.”

She did not release his hand and so trailed after him as he crossed the floor to bang on the door. Aeris winced at the noise.

“Hey!” he barked as if ordering troops. “ _HEY!_ ”

After a moment, the door slid open, one of the laboratory attendants stood nonplussed on the other side. It was one of the red-heads, the male. He could never remember their names, but Zack called them “Thing One and Thing Two”. Sephiroth was never sure which was which, but it really didn’t matter.

“May I help you, Sir?” he asked politely, as if Sephiroth had called for room service.

“Tell the Professor he can get someone else for his leading man,” he growled. “I’ll be in my room.” Roughly elbowing past him, he dragged Aeris down the hall. She caught up with him after a few steps and clung to his arm. Whether she was honestly scared or simply acting her part, he didn’t know. Drawing one hand away from his arm, he turned her as if dancing, and tucked her against his side, arm around her shoulders. Her narrow arm tightening about his waist made him start slightly, but he doubted anyone had noticed. She stayed that way, one arm around him, her other hand clutching the one he rested on her shoulder.

Mercifully, there was no one in the elevator, and no one wandering the halls of the barracks. Without stopping, he led her to his room and ushered her inside. She blinked, dismayed, stumbling to a halt just inside the doorway.

“Is this where you live?” she asked, voice small.

“Yes,” he said, gently shoving her toward the bedroom.

Compared to her habitat on the 67th floor, his room was plain indeed. Like an ink painting, everything was done in shades of gray with the occasional stroke of black or white. Stark white walls, plain gray linoleum tile floor. Simple, utilitarian, standard issue. He rarely used the small living area, and its neglect was evident in its nearly untouched condition. The bedroom, however, held a few more personal items: a stack of books on the night table, an empty glass for water, and Masamune’s mount on the wall above his bed. Aeris looked up at him, her expression so sad he worried she might start crying.

“But it’s so… so… so empty,” she finished lamely. Sephiroth shrugged.

“I’m not here much. It’s just a place to sleep.”

“I see…” Turning away from him, she surveyed the bed and its simple gray spread.

“Sit down if you want. I’m going to call Zack.”

“Is it...safe to talk here?”

He nodded, flipping open his PHS. “Yes. The camera is in the main room, and it’s visual only.” He hoped. “Zack? Report to my quarters. Yes. At once. New orders.” Snapping it closed, he turned to her. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

It took slightly longer than sixty seconds, during which they tried not to stare awkwardly at each other. Zack’s knock on the door and sharp call of “Lieutenant Fair reporting, Sir.” was welcome indeed. Standing, Sephiroth admitted him with a cryptic:

“I have something to show you.”

“Oh my gods! Aeris!” He was across the room and lifting her off the floor in a hug in a heartbeat. With both arms she clung to him, only pulling back enough to kiss him full on the lips. Zack, apparently, had not been expecting that, for he blinked and froze for a moment before his eyes drifted shut and he kissed her back. His face feeling warm again, Sephiroth turned away.

“The hell are you _doing_ here?” Zack asked, breathless, once they’d broken apart.

“The Professor tried to arrange a blind date,” Sephiroth supplied, feeling it might be best if he didn’t go into too much detail about this. “He didn’t realize she was already seeing somebody.”

“Say _what?_ ” Zack gaped.

“Not now. Zack, go and stand guard outside. Call Cloud. Tell him to bring an extra uniform, helmet, and a pair of boots in a gym bag. We’re going to have a changing of the guard.”

Cloud was duly summoned, arriving several minutes later with his gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Did you bring it?” Sephiroth asked him.

“Er...yeah.” Confused, Cloud dropped the bag just inside the bedroom door. “What’s going…” he trailed of into dumb silence at the sight of Aeris. Giving him a helpless smile, she waved.

“Good. The bathroom’s in there.” Looking at Aeris, Sephiroth nodded in the direction of the wash room that adjoined the bedroom. “Go get changed.”

Wordlessly, Aeris grabbed Cloud’s bag and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. While she dressed, the three of them made a of show relaying and receiving instructions in front of the living room camera. Sephiroth, feigning impatience, gestured for Cloud to go and see what was taking so long. He exited the camera’s border, appearing several minutes later. Zack and Cloud were then sent outside where they stood before the door for a good half hour before they grew bored. Zack began to show Cloud some fencing forms, swinging the Buster sword in a wide arc. The camera mounted in that section of the hallway sparked and fizzed before falling to the floor with a crash.

“Go,” Sephiroth ordered, shoving the infantryman out the door. “Don’t stop for anything.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Aeris mumbled behind the mask before hurrying down the hall.

\--

 

“Keep that on,” Cloud warned when Aeris went to remove her helmet. Although she stood even with the young recruit, she was proportionately smaller and the helmet sat low on her head despite the long ponytail tucked up underneath.

“I can’t see,” she whispered. Behind them, the Shinra building loomed tall and imposing, blotting out the dome of deepest blue speckled with shining white. Aeris had thought she would be afraid of the open sky, but she wasn’t. It was beautiful.

“Just follow me. We’ve gotta get back below plate. I know somebody who can help you get out of Midgar.”

Out of Midgar? But Zack was in Midgar, so was her mother, all her friends, and the brave boy who walked beside her.

“Won’t you get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out you helped me?”

Cloud grinned. “Well, it’s Sephiroth’s orders, so probably not. This is probably the only thing I’ve done so far that _won’t_ land me with KP later.”

Aeris smiled, stifling a giggle with one hand. Right. Manly. She totally had this. Cloud’s boots were two sizes too big, making it impossible to mince along the way she did when in skirts, forcing her to take long, lumbering steps. The fabric of his uniform felt coarse, scratchy, and too thick. If she had rose bushes, it might be nice for deflecting their thorns, otherwise she felt sorry for him and all the other soldiers who had to wear such uncomfortable clothes. Then again they were men. Men weren’t supposed to care about that kind of thing. Maybe it didn’t bother them?

It struck her how people gave them a wide cushion of space wherever they went. Neither were SOLDIERS, but apparently a Shinra uniform was enough to garner some respect, even fear. At first Aeris wanted to apologize to everyone, but realized quickly that it was just as well no one seemed to want to come near them. Normally she had to engineer what personal space she could manage for herself. It was a pleasant change not to have people eying her bosom or her behind, trying to get close enough touch her, or to deliver terrible pick-up lines. The flower cart had bought her some measure of additional personal real estate. She could keep it between herself and anyone she didn’t want coming too close. She liked it best when Zack came with her. Even out of uniform, the had a presence to him; the way he stood, the way he moved and spoke all told people that he was not going to be pushed around- and was not going to let anyone push her around either.

During their trek below plate, during the train ride down to ground level, and the long walk through the slums, Aeris fought the instinct to take Cloud’s arm. It wouldn’t do for a couple of soldiers to be seen holding hands. That would surely draw unwanted attention. After the second aborted reach for his elbow, she shoved her hands in her pockets. The uniform trousers had dozens of pockets, which would be useful to carry all sorts of things. Maybe the Shinra surplus store would have a pair close to her size? Cloud’s extra trousers were a decent length, but a fair bit too wide. It would make looking after the flowers a lot easier.

“Here we are,” Cloud’s words cut into her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. Cloud was already climbing the short set of stairs to one of the less-seedy bars in the area; an establishment called Cleo’s Place. Aeris had never been inside a bar in her life, and had been repeatedly warned against it by her mother- Zack too, now that she thought about it.

“C’mon,” Cloud told her, smiling. Well, if Cloud thought it was safe… Besides, she wasn’t Aeris right now she was...um…Aaron, maybe? Yes, Aaron the infantryman. A rookie. And Cloud was showing Aaron around.

“Um coming…” she said awkwardly, and galumphed up the stairs after him.

Inside, it was not dark and smelly as she had imagined it would be. Although there was a haze of cigarette smoke taking up the top six inches of the room, it was reasonably well-lit and full of the cheerful banter of young men. Almost everyone appeared to be wearing an infantry uniform, with a handful of SOLDIERS of various ranks scattered here and there. Most of them seemed to be dressed in blue or purple. She didn’t see any of the ubiquitous black uniforms of First Class. Maybe officers went somewhere else to drink? Edging around the jukebox and a couple of guys playing air guitar to a particularly loud single by the Black Mages, Cloud led her back towards the bar. Aeris had expected more men, but a tall woman with dark skin and a cloud of tightly-curled black hair was pouring beer and mixing drinks. Another much younger woman with fair skin and shoulder-length brown hair kept running back and forth with a tray.

“Hey Tifa, got a minute?” Cloud asked as the younger woman hurried past.

“Lemme drop these,” she called over her shoulder.

Cloud waited, seating himself at the bar until Tifa had served a table full of soldiers their drinks. Aeris marked how she casually slapped away the hand of an over-eager infantryman, evidently striking him hard enough to require him to rub his knuckles with the other hand. Although Tifa was wearing a simple white tank top that wasn’t quite long enough to cover her navel, she was wearing trousers and not a skirt. Upon closer examination, they bore a striking resemblance to the borrowed trousers Aeris herself was wearing, but black instead of blue. Evidently Tifa had had similar issues with fit, and had employed both a belt and suspenders to keep the former First Class trousers balanced on her hips. Secreting the gil the soldiers had given her into one of the many pockets, Tifa tucked her tray under her arm and made her way back to the bar.

“Hey Cloud,” she greeted him cheerfully. “Make First yet?” It was clearly meant to tease, the smile that accompanied the remark kind. Cloud blushed, but smiled himself.

“Any day now,” he told her. The moment of levity did not last, and he chewed his lip, searching for words.

“Who’s your friend?” Tifa asked, nodding at Aeris.

“I...need to talk to you about that,” Cloud told her rather awkwardly. “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”

Tifa thought for a moment. “Cleo, Cloud and his buddy are gonna help me bring some more cases upstairs.”

“Sure thing, honey,” Cleo drawled, not even looking up from the drink she was mixing.

Beckoning with one hand, Tifa led them behind the bar and down a rickety set of wooden stairs. The basement of the building had been converted to a store room with shelves of food and alcohol stacked neatly against each wall.

“What’s up?” Tifa asked. Cloud took a deep breath. Finally free from suspicious eyes, Aeris removed her helmet, braid spilling down past her shoulders. Tifa blinked.

“This is going to sound weird, but just hear me out,” he began. “This is Aeris. Shinra kidnapped her a couple of days ago because they think she’s an Ancient. She needs to get out Midgar. Can you help her?”

Tifa just stared for a moment before asking: “An Ancient?”

“It’s a long story,” Aeris put in. “I really was kidnapped. General Sephiroth helped me escape.”

“Who did what now?” Tifa’s jaw sagged even further toward the floor.

“He’s really very nice,” Aeris added.

Tifa continued to stare.

“Please, Tifa,” Cloud pressed. “It’s important. Aeris can’t stay here.”

Shaking herself, Tifa returned to earth. “No, you’re right. Of course I’ll help.”

“Thanks Tifa!” Cloud grinned and leaned to hug her. To Aeris’ mild surprise, Tifa let him do this, even gave him a rough pat on the shoulders as men often did with one another.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, gently shoving him away. “Now help me haul some more Banora upstairs. Aeris, can you stay here for a minute? I’ll be right back.”

“Um, sure,” Aeris nodded and watched as the other two shouldered cases of alcohol and trudged back upstairs leaving her alone in the store room.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "Aeris" is supposed to be pronounced "Iris".  
> At least, according to early fandom related ephemera.


	20. False Reports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole truth and nothing but the truth?  
> Not so much.

The typed, official story was never half as interesting as the real thing. However, it didn’t take too much imagination to read between the lines for this particular report. He’d dulled it down as much as he could, and scolded Zack several times not to elaborate, and then had to check himself. This was a need-to-know case, and the higher-ups really, _really_ didn’t need to know.

‘ _Arrived at location without incident. Employed services of local guide to direct myself and troops to Makou Reactor 0697. Encountered no remarkable creatures en route. Rope bridge partially collapsed while in transit. Private Strife fell, but sustained no serious injuries. Private Strife is a Nibelheim native and was therefore able to make his own way to Makou Reactor 0697 where he rejoined party approximately an hour later._

_Upon entering Makou Reactor 0697, Lt. Fair and myself discovered several makou pods. One of these malfunctioned, ejecting the creature inside which disintegrated upon exposure. Upon further inspection it was determined that all the creatures inside the makou pods had expired and were then subsequently disposed of by Lt. Fair, Private Strife, and myself._

_I examined the specimen known as Jenova preserved in the antechamber of Makou Reactor 0697. Nothing remarkable was discovered._

_The troops and myself did encounter an unknown creature within Makou Reactor 0697, but were unable to capture or subdue it. The creature was not one Lt. Fair, Private Strife, or myself had encountered before. It is currently believed that the creature is still at large, but is no longer stalking the immediate area around Makou Reactor 0697._

_Outcome: Nibelheim and Reactor 0697 secure.  
Recommended action: Track and subdue creature._ ’

The end product did not reflect even a fraction of what they’d done in Nibelheim. He had not included the scavenger hunt in the Shinra Mansion, nor finding Vincent and the cache of journals in the basement. He’d omitted the battle with Jenova and- as Zack put it- the legions of the makou undead. Although he hadn’t gone into detail as to what Cloud had done to deserve a commendation for SOLDIER training, he’d put the letter forth nonetheless. If it had his signature on it, it wasn’t likely anyone would question it. Of Tifa, he’d made barely a mention, hoping to preserve her anonymity and therefore her safety. It wasn’t an outright lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Vincent would be proud.

It was funny how well they’d trained him to tell the truth, to parrot back everything he’d said or did without thought. Sephiroth had to remind himself, more often than he probably should, that he was General. He had only Lazard and the Board to answer to, and he had a right to refuse orders if he wanted. However, he’d only done so once. He liked the missions, but if he were honest, he went not simply for the pleasure of combat but because he wanted to appear useful. There were stories and rumors and legends as to what became of Shinra employees who outlived their usefulness. The war was over. His only rivals- his only friends- were dead. What use did Shinra have for him now? He’d mentioned to Zack that he might defect as well, depending on how the next mission turned out. That next mission had been the one to Nibelheim. Officially, it was over, but in reality, it was anything but.

Vincent had left him a clumsily-typed text that better resembled the contents of a handwritten letter. He’d run out of characters a third of the way through. Sephiroth chuckled to himself at that. Some of the senior officers still had similar issues with their PHSs and company emails. One could tell they were more familiar with the rules and niceties of paper and direct speech. On one hand, it was charming; on the other, it was maddening. Hopefully, Vincent would get the hang of it soon. Although he’d only gotten a portion of the text, Sephiroth got the gist of it. Vincent had answers, Sephiroth was welcome to come and see what he’d found at his convenience. He deleted it immediately.

Well, now was as good a time as any. He was tired of keeping up appearances for the science department. At present, he didn’t much care if the Professor discovered that he’d turned his precious specimen loose, except that troops would more than likely be deployed to find her and Sephiroth didn’t want that. So far as Hojo knew, the girl was still in his room, and Sephiroth was not about to correct that assumption. The game would be up soon enough. Hojo would want her back eventually. Until then, Aeris was safe. He hoped so, anyway.

The problem was not simply that he would expected to remain in during the evening. Sephiroth had established a schedule for himself that was not a secret to anyone in the Shinra building. If he deviated from it, there would be questions. Opening the SOLDIER database, he scrolled through the various open investigations, campaigns, and assignments. Near the bottom, he noticed a seemingly inconsequential report:

‘ _Multiple reports of sightings of “man in a red cape”, “demon in red cape”, “beast in a red cape” throughout slums. No injuries reported. Local troops sent to investigate. No suspects at present._ ’

Well now. If this was what he thought it was…

The plan formed quickly, taking shape within his mind while he dug out his PHS. Thumb poised over the buttons, he stopped. Time with Vincent had taught him to be suspicious. Did not the company have access to his phone calls? His emails? His searches on the company intranet? He dared not contact Vincent directly. However, there was someone he could ask. Paging down through the pre-programmed contacts, he selected the name and hit ‘send’.

“Tseng, speaking,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Tseng.”

“General Sephiroth?” the head of Turks sounded surprised, as well he might.

“I might have a lead for you.”

“Sir?”

“I saw the report concerning a demon in a red cloak sighted in the slums.”

“Yes, Sir. Investigation is still ongoing, but it’s not priority. So far all reports have come from less-than-credible sources.”

“Such as?”

“Drunks, prostitutes, derelicts.”

“I see… What if I told you I know for a fact they’re not making it up?”

“...Sir?”

“I’ve seen this demon and his red cloak.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

“I’d like to discuss this in more detail. May I speak with you directly?”

“Of course, Sir. I am available at your convenience.”

“Thank you.”

 

\--

 

Tseng met him in his office. It wasn’t his only office, according to company rumor. However, this public office was where Sephiroth found the head of the Turks, seated before his wide desk with the wider window behind him.

“General,” Tseng said, inclining his head in an informal bow rather than offering to shake hands. “It’s an honor.”

Unlike most of the soldiers who’d spent time in Wutai, Sephiroth had learned a few things outside of combat and guerrilla tactics. He returned the gesture, letting the other man know that his respect was mutual, and that he did not consider himself the highest-ranking person in the room. They were both leaders of their respective branches and were therefore equals. Tseng seemed pleasantly surprised by this, and motioned for Sephiroth to have a seat.

“You said you had some information concerning our demon in red?”

“I do,” Sephiroth nodded. The Turks guarded the company’s darkest secrets. They knew things he could only guess at. Surely this was one place where he would not have to worry about saying too much? The irony of this was not lost on him. Trusting a Turk. Who would have thought? Taking a deep breath, he looked Tseng straight in the eye.

“He was the creature we found in Nibelheim.”

It took Tseng a moment to answer. “Was he?”

Sephiroth nodded. Tseng took out a pad and pen and made a few notes. “This was the vicious monster you were sent to investigate?”

He shoved the pad across the desk. Leaning, Sephiroth read what he’d written: ‘What’s his name?’

“I believe so, yes.”

Beneath Tseng’s neat print, Sephiroth wrote: ‘Vincent Valentine. I sent him to you.’

Tseng’s brows creased at this, and he looked at Sephiroth for a long moment. Eventually, he smiled, and typed a command into his computer.

“My countrymen were right. You are brave. Reckless, but brave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s alright, we can speak freely now.”

“Can we?” Sephiroth asked, one eyebrow quirked. Tseng smiled.

“Now you don’t trust me?”

It was Sephiroth’s turn to smile. “Touche.”

“What’s this really about?”

“It is about Valentine. I did find him in the basement of the Shinra mansion in Nibelheim.”

“I know. He told me. The short version, anyway. I don’t need to know more, I just need to know why you’re here.”

“I’m working with him on something.”

Rather than ask for details, Tseng simply nodded. Reassured, Sephiroth went on. “I need a reason to not be in this building. I’m going to need it soon. Can I ask you to get in touch with him for me?”

“Of course. What should I tell him?”

Sephiroth thought for a moment. “Ask him...if he wants to play fetch?”

 

\--

 

If Sephiroth had needed an excuse, Vincent gave him one. Over the next few days, sightings of the “demon in red” spiked enormously. Like one of Zack’s comic book vigilantes, Vincent seemed to have taken to tearing up the slums as if on a personal crusade. Perhaps he was? Although local troops were employed to investigate, so far those that hadn’t been sent running had been returned virtually gift-wrapped. None of them had been harmed, but each had an impressive fish story to tell. After that they tried Thirds- 3rd Class SOLDIERS- and then Seconds. Vincent made short work of them all. Sephiroth wondered if he was having as much fun running them off as he was watching? He hoped so. Vincent seemed the type to enjoy a challenge.

When they asked for Firsts, Sephiroth volunteered.

“Someone has to uphold SOLDIER’s honor,” he’d told Lazard, taking a page from Angeal’s book. “Besides, this was my problem from the start.”

Lazard had tilted his head in confusion. “How so?”

“This demon in red? I found him back in Nibelheim.”

Once outside Lazard’s office, Zack had accosted him.

“The hell are you _doing_?” the younger man hissed.

“Playing a part,” Sephiroth grumbled back. “He’s agreed to this. I need a reason to speak with him. This is part of the plan.”

“Some plan,” Zack groused. “You were gonna tell me when?”

“When you needed to know,” Sephiroth snapped. Zack started, taken aback, but then saluted, realizing he’d overstepped his authority.

“Sorry, Sir.”

Sephiroth returned salute to let Zack know he was forgiven. “Just keep your mouth shut. I’ll tell him you said ‘hello’.”

 

\--

 

Under any other circumstances, Sephiroth would have gone in full uniform. However, this was home. People knew his face, his hair, his jacket. They recognized everything about him, as well they might with his face plastered all over everything. He hadn’t realized how widely used his image was until he stepped outside the Shinra building. He snuck out one of the rear entrances with Tseng’s help, and down to the station used by the commuters who did not live above plate. Even reminding himself to slouch, his was still the highest head in the crowd. Mercifully, the office ladies and salary men were too preoccupied with their own small concerns to pay him any mind. Even with Masamune slung on his back- he could not bring himself to leave her- no one looked at him twice. In a bulky hooded sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and combat boots, he looked like every other punk mixed in with the suits and dresses crammed onto the train.

“Damn kids,” he heard one man mutter. “Shouldn’t be allowed to have those long swords on a train. They get themselves a Masamune replica and think they’re Sephiroth.”

It took an active force of will not to laugh.

He’d heard below plate was rough, but he’d not seen just how rough with his own eyes. Maybe he should go for walks like this more often? Vincent had most recently been spotted in Sector 7. Sector 6 was held the retail district and was therefore bright and noisy enough that most of the criminals dealt primarily in flesh and poison. Sectors 8 and 5, by contrast, were a mix of scrap yard and shanty dwellings and comparatively peaceful- especially since Vincent had taken it upon himself to clean up. Seven, however, held most of the dive bars and a few pitiful cottage businesses. The sound of shots fired off to his left made him turn sharply. One hand on Masamune’s pommel, he rushed toward the noise. Vincent was already there. 

Three thugs were firing at a red blur, an old man with a chocobo-drawn cart full of rubbish beating a hasty retreat in the other direction. One of the thugs looked as if he’d taken a spill already, his clothing a bit dirtier than that of his fellows. Gripping his weapon with both hands, he took shot after shot at the flash of Vincent’s red cloak, doing more damage to the junk piled on all sides than anything else. Releasing Masamune’s handle, Sephiroth stepped back into the shadows and watched. It truly was beautiful. Gunslingers had a totally different style from swordsmen, and Vincent was clearly a master at his craft. He could have taken down these punks in short order, but he was playing with them, purposely putting on a show. It wasn’t that they were bad shots, he was simply too fast for them. As far as Sephiroth could tell, Vincent hadn’t fired once. It didn’t take long for the thugs to empty their clips. One of them reached to reload, and that was when Vincent pounced, knocking him flat on his back. The other two rounded on him, weapons poised, but abruptly dropped them, clutching at their hands as two more shots rang out.

With his claw, Vincent lifted the first man off his feet by his collar, letting him get a good long look at his glowing red eyes.

“Now are you going to behave,” he growled, a touch of Chaos in his voice, “or do I need to warn you again?”

The thug put his hands in the air in surrender. Vincent threw him to the ground.

“ _OUT!_ ” he barked. “Don’t let me catch you here again!”

Without bothering to retrieve their weapons, they ran.

Stepping out of the shadows, Sephiroth applauded.

“Nicely done.”

“Thank you,” Vincent replied with a mock-bow. “I was wondering how long it would take you. Tseng mentioned you’d be coming.”

“There aren’t too many people who fit the description: a demon in a red cape. You’ve been terrifying the slums for weeks now. You’ve sent everyone else packing, so they sent me.”

“Terrifying who?” Vincent countered. “I’ve just been taking out the garbage.”

“Yes, all of the would-be criminals have lived to tell the tale. Have you even killed anyone?”

“Killed?” Vincent put a hand to his heart. “You insult me! Any marksman worthy of the title always hits _exactly_ what he aims for.”

There was a joke, or perhaps a double-meaning there, but Sephiroth filed it away for later.

“Care to give the locals something else to talk about, then? It’s not often I’m let off leash.”

“Are you?”

Sephiroth shrugged and eased Masamune from her sheath. “For the moment. I’m here to track down the vicious creature that escaped the Nibelheim reactor.”

“Ah,” Vincent nodded, understanding. “I assumed as much. I’m no Jenova, but I’ve been a decoy before.”

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you. Shall we?”

Sweeping his cloak back and away from his gun arm, Vincent drew his pistol and twirled it before leveling it at him. Sephiroth smiled.

“Just like a Turk to bring a gun to a sword fight.”

“Every try to cross steel with lead?” Vincent dared. Sephiroth snorted.

“Several times.”

“Not with me.”

“Is that a threat, old man?” he asked, shifting to a ready stance and poising Masamune to strike. Vincent had not moved.

“Sparring rules. First blood.”

Sephiroth quirked an eyebrow.

“Do you _really_ want any of my friends showing up? Let’s keep this between you and me.”

“Fair enough.”

Taking a half-step back, Vincent saluted. Sephiroth likewise lowered Masamune and returned it before counting off in his head.

_Four, three, two…_

Vincent fired, Sephiroth dodging the bullet easily. Just a warning shot, nothing more. They were only playing, admittedly with sharps, but playing nonetheless. Just like the training simulator. No one was actually looking for blood. He’d fought the Gallian Beast, the Death Gigas, the Hell Mask, and the Demon Chaos. However, he’d not yet engaged Vincent himself. This should be interesting.

Masamune’s blade was unusually long, but nowhere near the range of Vincent’s gun. It belatedly occurred to Sephiroth that he’d not noticed what sort of pistol Vincent carried. All Turk marksmen were issued a standard Quicksilver R-85 for their sidearm. It made sense that Vincent might have an older model, but whatever he had seemed to have a longer reach and less of kick. All the gunslingers Sephiroth knew used both hands when firing. It could have been because of his claw, but Vincent fired using only one.

Sephiroth lunged toward him, Masamune poised, but Vincent was already gliding away, arm extended and lining up another shot. Tilting the blade, he feinted, drawing Vincent’s shot before dodging closer to disarm him. Masamune just tapped the pistol, not even loosening Vincent’s grip. Sephiroth blinked as Vincent grabbed the blade with his claw.

“Not a scratch,” he warned, hefting his gun for emphasis.

“I could say the same to you,” Sephiroth retorted, having more trouble than he’d anticipated freeing the sword from Vincent’s grip. He’d not been expecting Vinent to let go, and so stumbled back a few steps before recovering. Ready for it, Sephiroth deflected the next two shots easily before opting for a slightly different approach. Rather than rush forward, he leaped into the air, bringing Masamune down in wide arc. Vincent had to dive and roll out of the way to avoid him, squeezing off another round before he’d even gotten to his feet.

Vincent had been right. This was harder than he’d thought. Whether it was because he hadn’t been worried about hurting the other gunmen he’d encountered, or because Vincent was far more skilled than they’d been, Sephiroth did not know. He could avoid the shots, that was not the issue. The issue was that he required just enough distance to wield Masamune effectively, and that distance was apparently about even with the minimum range for Vincent’s sidearm. Strange though it might seem, in this instance, they were evenly matched.

Crouched on one knee, gun arm outstretched, Vincent watched him, evidently waiting for him to make the first move. Yanking Masamune out of the pavement, Sephiroth took a moment to count the shots in his head. Two shots for the thugs, five shots for the duel. Most Turk pistols had a magazine of seven. Out of ammunition, he was trying to bluff his way out. When Sephiroth rushed him, this time Vincent did not move. With his claw he blocked the blow, purposely angling the artificial limb so as not to catch the sharp edge of the blade dead-on. Sephiroth had no intention of taking his arm off, and so allowed him to spiral Masamune off the prosthetic. Dodging a swing from the hand holding the gun, Sephiroth let the momentum carry the blunt side of the blade up against the older man’s throat.

“Do you yield?” he asked.

“Do you?”

Sephiroth had not until that moment realized there was cold steel poised under his own chin.

“You’re out.”

“Am I?” Vincent dared.

“Draw?”

“You’re asking that of a gunman?”

Sephiroth chuckled and lowered Masamune. “Truce, then?”

“Truce,” Vincent agreed and holstered his weapon. Sephiroth frowned.

“I thought Turk pistols only had seven rounds?”

“They might now, but they didn’t then,” Vincent told him, drawing the weapon again for Sephiroth’s inspection and popping the clip. “Quicksilver R-56. Popular for its extra-long clip that holds nine rounds instead of seven. Veld tells me it got the axe a few years later since it was too big and too heavy. Letty loved it even if she could barely lift it.”

“You son of a…” Sephiroth began, then shook his head and laughed. Behind his collar, Vincent grinned, the expression twisted and feral.

“If you think we’ve given the neighbors enough to talk about, I’ll meet you at Veld’s.” Vincent pushed a scrap of paper into his hand.

“So he’s alive,” Sephiroth mused, squinting at Vincent’s jagged handwriting.

“Yes. See you there.”

Sephiroth looked up just in time to see Vincent’s red cloak melt- not fade, not disappear into darkness, but literally disintegrate- into the shadows. Pocketing the address, Sephiroth took off after him. Zack was right, it was creepy how he did that.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nibelheim makou reactor's number is completely arbitrary. I don't think it's formally numbered in the game. The model numbers for the Turk firearms are also completely made up.
> 
> Also, when I wrote this, I was unaware of [this picture](http://www.zerochan.net/full/230134).


	21. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing is set on fire.

Vincent did not return to the safer areas immediately below-plate by any conventional means. Rather than walk or take the train, he climbed the piles of rubble, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, surefooted and silent as an alley cat. Sephiroth kept pace, doing his best to mark the path that seemed to exist only in Vincent’s mind. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to where he put his feet, the cables he chose to climb up. At one point he made a seemingly kamikaze dive off a spike of rebar jutting out of the remaining wall of a demolished building only to disappear around the corner having landed on a narrow ledge several feet below.

They did not approach Veld’s home from the street. Vincent dropped down from the understructure of the plate. Funny, Sephiroth would not have considered crawling through the struts and cables overhead. Vincent, however, had made a veritable jungle gym of the tangle of metal and wires. The drop to the roof of Veld’s building was not short, but not so high as to cause injury. Once landed, Vincent pulled cloak off, rolled it up under one arm, and stole down the fire escape.

A door closed and locked, just as Vincent ushered him through the open window.

“Valentine?” a smoke-roughened voice called.

“It’s us,” Vincent returned. “The kid’s here.”

Kid? Sephiroth blinked as he realized they meant him. Shutting the window behind him, Sephiroth straightened in time to see a man of decent height with graying brown hair enter the bedroom. This could only be the former head of the Turks, Veld Verdot.

“You make the drop?” Vincent asked.

“Yeah, like nothin’ ever happened,” Veld replied, tossing his jacket on the bed. “Wiped the prints, put ‘em all back just like we found ‘em. Suitcases, moving box, everything.”

Vincent nodded. “Good.”

“That him?” Veld nodded at Sephiroth.

“Yeah.”

Pulling the hood back, Sephiroth brushed his bangs out of his face before taking the offered hand to shake.

“Good to meet you, son,” Veld told him. Sephiroth dumbly shook hands, not knowing how to respond to that. No one had ever called him ‘son’ that he could remember. “I knew your mother. Sweet girl. I’m very sorry.”

What he was sorry for, Sephiroth had no idea. With a growing feeling of surreality, he dropped Veld’s hand and gave a bewildered “Thank you.”

“This way,” Vincent said, exiting the room. Glad for an escape from the awkward conversation, Sephiroth followed him. Veld’s apartment was small but not cramped, and comfortably dated. Everything in it was as venerable, sturdy, and hard-used as its owner. Turning off from the narrow hallway, he followed Vincent into the living area. A laptop and a small stack of CDs in jewel cases stood on a battered coffee table. Selecting two, Vincent handed them to him. Both were silver and non-descript, labeled in permanent marker as “Loveless Vol 1” and “Loveless Vol 2”.

“Loveless?” Sephiroth echoed, visions of Genesis and his endless poetry dancing in his head.

“The first one is SOLDIER files,” Vincent explained. “The second one...well, that’s yours.”

“Mine?”

Vincent nodded. “Take them home, look at them now if you want. They’re yours. Do as you please with them.”

Sephiroth eyed the second set of copies, also falsely labeled as “Loveless”.

“What about the other copies?”

“For posterity,” Veld put in, coming into the room and shoving a steaming mug at him. Sephiroth blinked at this and took the mug with his free hand automatically. Coffee, strong, by the smell of it.

“All those records were scheduled to be destroyed,” Vincent went on. “Hojo stole the originals. We borrowed them and copied them. The information on those disks...it’s not the sort of thing that ought to disappear.”

For a moment, Sephiroth studied the disks and their misleading titles. Stooping, he set the mug down and looked at the pair of Turks standing opposite him. For reasons he could not explain, he suddenly felt very young.

“Would it be alright if I looked at these now?”

Veld nodded. “S’why the computer’s there. Take your time. Let us know if you need anything.”

With that, both of them exited, leaving Sephiroth alone in the living room. He stood there a minute and then dropped down onto the sofa- dropping an extra inch or two as the springs of the ancient upholstery gave way. Shifting away from the sharp edges, he switched on the laptop and reached for a set of earbuds that lay coiled nearby. A CD in each hand, he looked at them, trying to decide. It wasn’t much of a decision, honestly. Pocketing the first one, he opened the jewel case and slotted it into the drive. Giving the file a moment to load, he pressed the earbuds in and hit “play”.

\--

The only indicator was the date stamp: June 20. The date meant nothing to Sephiroth. There was no lead-in, no placard, nothing. It was the same high-in-the-corner camera mount, the image grainy and black-and-white. Color would not become practical until about twenty years later. There was a simple iron bed against the near wall, the foot pointed toward the center of the room. An old style counter- all wood with cabinets underneath- stood against the opposite wall. There was a tabletop scale, a heap of towels, an enamel basin, and a wicker bassinet.

_Oh gods…_

Suddenly, Sephiroth wasn’t sure he wanted to watch this. On the point of turning it off, he froze. A man and a woman had entered the frame. The man was tall, but with slightly hunched shoulders. Perhaps it was because he was leaning down to support the woman, his arm around her. Against him she seemed unusually small, her head not even level with his shoulder. Leaning forward, one hand pressed to her stomach, Sephiroth did not have a clear view of her face. The dichromatic film rendered her hair as dark gray, lighter than the man’s.

“Just sit down, Lu,” the man said, his tone gentle. “Everything will be ready in a minute.”

She nodded silently, and let the man- was it the Professor? it couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible- help her onto the bed. Already dressed in a nightgown, Sephiroth was spared the awkwardness of trying to watch the film without watching her undress. Another woman hurried into the room, he long wavy hair hanging to her hips.

_Aunt Ifalna…_

She was followed closely by another man, a bit shorter than the first and with a thick mustache.

_Professor Gast…_

Ifalna hugged the woman on the bed- Lucrecia- and offered words of encouragement that did not reach the microphone as more than a happy murmur. Professor Gast also seemed happy, excited, puttering about, hooking Lucrecia to various monitors. The machines were huge and antiquated, the tubes nearly as thick as his finger. They seemed too large to be pressed into his mother’s narrow arm. After a moment the taller man came back, a white coat over his street clothes, and glanced at the camera. Sephiroth could not have said what he recognized about that brief look, only that the young, even handsome face, belonged to the man he’d spent most of his life despising: Professor Hojo.

“We rolling?” he asked, and Gast nodded.

“Yes, yes, the mechanism engaged as soon as you came in the room. We’ve got plenty of film, so don’t worry about that.”

His mother looked a bit uncertain, though little more than the rear three-quarters of her head was visible.

“It’ll be alright, Lu,” the Professor assured her. “It’ll film the birth, but nothing else.”

Relaxing a bit, she nodded.

It was infuriating, to listen to everyone talk around her, over her, as if she were not there. Lucrecia herself had yet to say anything. However, after several minutes of idle chatter, a sharp cry pierced the white noise. Ifalna rushed to Lucrecia’s side and took her hand, coaching her through a breathing pattern. This was repeated quite a few times, with Ifalna peeking beneath the bedsheets periodically. Straightening, she shook her head.

“C’mon, Lucy,” she said, gently drawing Lucrecia toward the edge of the bed. “I think he needs a little motivation.”

It had not been his imagination, his mother _was_ short. Ifalna was of middling height for a woman, but Lucrecia was only just shoulder-high on her. As Vincent had said: tiny, perhaps five foot if she stretched. Beneath the shapeless nightgown, her stomach seemed bigger than she was. One arm around Ifalna, they walked back and forth as far as the tubing would let her. Every step was laboured and slow. When his mother began to pant too badly, Ifalna had her sit down again.

At the edges of the frame, Hojo and Gast puttered about with vials, implements, and other things that were out of the range of the camera. It occurred to Sephiroth that at this point in time, husbands did not sit with their wives when they delivered. However, both had extensive medical knowledge and were there in an official capacity. Both, he noticed, kept glancing over at the women every time the situation changed. It didn’t change much. Ifalna walking his mother around the bed became so repetitive that Sephiroth pressed the fast-forward button. He watched the grainy dichromatic ghosts on the screen flicker in the same pattern as if the film had been cut and copied in a loop. At last Ifalna had his mother lie back on the bed with her knees drawn up, making a little tent of the sheet that covered her legs. The men had disappeared off-camera, and Sephiroth couldn’t help wondering how much help they’d truly be in this instance? At least Ifalna seemed to know what she was doing.

He watched as long as he could, but the footage was strangely repetitive though the clock in the corner kept counting. His mother had come into the room close to four hours ago. Ifalna peeked beneath the sheet and twisted her lips to one side.

“Taking his time about it isn’t he? Professor?”

The answer came in unison: “Yes?”

This was apparently a common misunderstanding for everyone laughed.

“Gast,” Ifalna clarified. “Do you have the injection?”

“Yes, here you are.” He handed her a small syringe. It looked antique to Sephiroth’s eye; unusually elaborate and handsome for a medical tool. Ifalna thanked him and shifted the sheet, apparently sliding the needle into his mother’s thigh.

“There, that ought to hurry things along a bit.”

Whatever the injection was supposed to do, Sephiroth could only assume it hadn’t worked. With a sigh, he punched the fast-forward button again. He would have liked to hear his mother speak, to hear her voice, but despite multiple stops and starts to test the soundtrack, she remained silent. Ifalna leaned close repeatedly, coaching his mother through her pain, massaging her stomach. Eventually, the Professor came over and took his mother’s other hand, his arm around her shoulders. Sephiroth checked the clock in the corner. She’d been in the delivery room nearly twelve hours. Movement on the bed made him punch “stop”. At once the screen went dark. Grumbling to himself, he hit “play” and ran the footage back a few seconds before starting again.

His mother was crying. Lying exhausted against the pillows, every breath was a shallow moan of pain, the hitch in each one belying her tears.

“Professor, she can’t go on like this,” Ifalna said, looking to Gast.

“Is there anything else you can do for her?” he asked. “Lucrecia’s our best surgeon and she can’t very well operate on herself.”

“I could…” Hojo began, but Ifalna interrupted him.

“Seiji, can you get her on her knees?”

“Why?”

“Let’s see if we can get gravity to help us.”

Carefully, Hojo leaned forward and gathered her into his arms. Lucrecia tried to fold her arms around his neck, but her grip seemed weak and awkward. Rising, he propped her on her knees, facing him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“There now,” he murmured, smoothing her back with one hand. “It’ll all be over soon. Just rest a moment.”

Hampered somewhat by her surgical smock, Ifalna climbed up on the bed behind her.

“One leg up for me,” Ifalna instructed, manipulating the limb in question rather than waiting for his mother to do it. Any further movement was beyond her. Even from this decidedly awkward angle, he could see the darker stain of sweat on the back of her nightgown where it clung to her skin, the long strands of hair that had gone damp and stringy dangling over her shoulders. Couldn’t they see she was at the end of her strength? Why _didn’t_ someone do something?

Face hidden in Hojo’s shoulder, his mother began to whimper.

“Alright, one more big push for me, Lu. You can do it. Just one more.”

She tried. She did. He could see her arms flex, her hands grip one another tightly behind the Professor’s neck. Beneath the sodden nightgown, the muscles of her back tensed.

“Come on Lu, come on. You can do it.” The phrase had been repeated ad-nauseum. Even Sephiroth could tell that things were going nowhere and not for lack of effort on his mother’s part. Ifalna’s head dipped out of sight as she leaned to gauge what sort of progress had been made. The tense silence spoke louder than any curse.

“Well?” the Professor asked. The only one facing the camera, Ifalna’s forcedly bland expression made Sephiroth’s stomach drop.

“The baby’s too big. She’s dilated as far as she can, but it’s not enough. At this point she’ll tear if we don’t make an incision.”

“Lu, did you hear that?” he asked, stroking her hair. His mother, hanging limply in his arms, did not reply.

“Lu?” he patted her cheek a bit harder than necessary, but his mother did not respond. Stretching, Ifalna stood on her knees and peered at Lucrecia’s face.

“Lu?” she asked, shaking her shoulder with one hand. “Lu? Can you hear me?”

His mother started slightly at this, her head wobbling on her neck as she tried to hold Ifalna in focus.

“Hang in there Lu,” Ifalna told her. “We need to make an incision, okay? You won’t like it, but it’ll help get the baby out.”

Drunkenly, she nodded.

“Professor?”

Ifalna scooted out of the way, holding the hem of his mother’s nightgown clear while Professor Gast fetched a scalpel.

“I’m sorry, Lu,” he apologized. Sephiroth cringed as his mother screamed.

“Come on now,” Ifalna coached, returning to her place behind his mother. “One more big push. Just one more.”

Sobbing into the Professor’s shoulder, Lucrecia tried to do as she was told. This time, dark splotches of blood spattered the sheets, trailed down her legs.

“Good!” Ifalna’s voice was the lightest it had been in hours. “Good! Keep going, just one more big push!”

His mother shrieked, the sound twisting his guts, even as Ifalna shouted in delight:

“It’s a boy!”

Almost at once, his mother sagged against the Professor, utterly exhausted.

“Well done,” the Professor told her, hugging her close and kissing her cheek. “Well done, Lu. Well done.”

A new cry split the silence, the sharp wail of a baby.

“He’s got a good set of lungs on him,” Ifalna remarked happily. “Here, set her down.”

Kissing his mother’s forehead once more, Professor Hojo gently laid her back on the pillows. Now it was easier to see the dark stain his birth had left on the sheets, her nightgown, his lab coat. Even to Sephiroth’s untrained eye, it seemed disturbingly large.

“...should that be?” the Professor asked, eyeing the stains himself.

“Why don’t you hold your son, and I’ll have a quick look,” Ifalna told him, carefully placing the baby into his arms. The Professor seemed entirely at a loss as to what to do with the infant, holding it somewhat awkwardly. On the bed, his mother’s body had begun to twitch.

Even on the grainy black and white film, it was easy to see that Ifalna’s face had gone ashen.

“Professor!”

“What’s the matter?” the Professor asked, voice edged with panic.

“Seizure,” Ifalna stated, and then gave an abbreviated shriek as a greater wash of blood soaked the sheets. “And hemorrhage. Oh Lu, no… No, don’t do this…”

Frantically, she tried to staunch the bleeding while Professor Gast filled a syringe. No sooner had he pressed the needle into her thigh, however, than his mother abruptly lay still.

“Lucrecia…” Ifalna’s voice was small and frightened. For a moment everyone just stood there, the machines beeping and blaring unnoticed. Finally, Professor Gast edged around Professor Hojo and shut them off.

“I’m so sorry…”

The Professor just stood there, infant son in his arms, his wife lying still and silent on her childbed.

“Lu…” he managed at last. As if unable to bear the sight any longer, he turned away, shoving the baby at Ifalna.

“Take his measurements,” the Professor ordered, though the words were soggy with tears. “Mark the date and time.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said softly, and took the child from him.

“Nine pounds, fourteen ounces. Twenty-four inches even. Time of birth, June 21, 3:42AM.”

Then he was already twenty-five. How strange. Sephiroth had never known the day of his own birth, simply marking his age by the turning of the new year. He watched, feeling tears trail down his own cheeks as Ifalna and Gast went about their work. Even they were struggling to remain professional, to do what needed to be done despite the body still lying in its blood in the center of the room. Once the infant had been seen to, Ifalna tried to hand him back to Hojo, but he was standing beside the body. Without a word, she turned and instead tucked the baby into the bassinet and left the room, Gast right behind her.

The Professor just stood there for several minutes, picking up implements only to put them down again. Noticing the stain on his white coat, he removed it, but put it back on again when he saw his shirt and trousers had been stained as well. His aimless wandering about the room finally led him back to his mother’s bedside. For a long moment he stood there, both hands clenched at his sides. Head lowered, Sephiroth did not have a clear view of his face, but the twitch of his shoulders betrayed the sharp breaths and hidden tears. Wiping his face with one hand, the Professor seemed to collect himself somewhat. Leaning, he straightened Lucrecia’s legs, and drew the sheet up over her, as if tucking her in. The clean white linen hiding the horrible stain, she might have simply been asleep. Metal screeched on the tile floor as the Professor pulled over a stool and sat down.

“Oh Lu…” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “Lu I’m so sorry…”

Fresh tears spilled from behind his glasses, but he ignored them. Instead he took her hand and held it in both of his. It was a strangely intimate gesture. Sephiroth had never known the Professor to be one for physical contact unless a syringe was involved, but this… It was if he had folded her into his arms. The Professor sighed heavily through his nose, brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“It was my fault,” he said, voice small and constricted. “If I hadn’t been so careless… This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. We were supposed to do this together. I can’t do this on my own. I don’t know how to raise a child…”

His expression crumbled and he lowered his head, a sob escaping his throat.

“He’s beautiful, Lu. Absolutely perfect.” He sniffed, swallowed hard. “You’ll hold him some day. I’ll fix this. I promise. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down. I’ll fix this. I will.”

The Professor leaned in close, touching his forehead to his mother’s.

“It’ll be alright, Lu,” he whispered, “you’ll see. We’ll be together again. All of us. I promise.”

He leaned closer, just for a moment, and then drew back. It took Sephiroth a moment to realized he’d kissed her.

“...I love you.”

Hojo held her for a moment more and then worked the nightgown over her head. Wrapping the top sheet around her, he lifted her in his arms, the hem trailing to the floor like a bridal train. One arm hung limp, but he steadied her head against his shoulder.

“Come,” he whispered into her hair. “We’ll put you somewhere safe until then.”

Turning, he carried her out of the frame. After another minute, the screen went dark.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth's birthday is an old and long-established bit of headcanon that came from the early days of my fanfic and FF7 fandom experience. Much love and respect to those who were there. You know who you are. <3


	22. Lullabye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home movies are awkward.

Taking a shaky breath, Sephiroth swiped at his eyes, found his cheeks too wet for fingers alone and mopped his face with sleeve. He did not remember crying so much. The cup of strong coffee had gone cold long ago but he gulped it down anyway, glad for the wetness on his throat and the chemical slap of caffeine. Rubbing his still salty face with both hands, he tried to collect himself, to remember that he was sitting on an abused and out-dated sofa in an equally rundown apartment building just under the plate. The onetime head of the Turks was smoking in another room, the stench of burning tobacco drifting in from the hallway. Where Vincent had gotten to, he did not know. Probably sitting out on the fire escape, or maybe the roof. He seemed to like rooftops. After being trapped in a basement for so long, Sephiroth did not blame him.

There were other films on the disk, but he wasn’t sure he could look at them now. It was a strange thing to witness one’s own birth. He was not entirely glad he had seen it. What he had hoped for was to see his mother’s face, hear her voice, but neither had been captured on the film. All he had to go by was her screams, the sound of her sobs, and that was worse than nothing at all. Even what little of her he’d seen had been draped and distorted, no part of her captured clearly or directly. Although there were other files, she was unlikely to appear on any of them. They were all organized by date, and this had been the earliest. There might be more to watch, but there would be no more footage of his mother.

He wanted details, specifics, instances, stories, something that he could tie to her name besides the poor broken body in the film. He wanted a memory of her alive and smiling.

There was only one place to go for that.

\--

Vincent was indeed perched up on the roof, one knee tucked up, the other leg dangling over the ledge. He’d changed out of the black uniform, but left the red cloak draped around his shoulders. Climbing up the last rungs of the fire escape, Sephiroth went over and sank to the ground beside him. The stink of tobacco was evident up here too, but less powerful in the open air- not that the air quality below plate was terribly good to start with.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Sephiroth observed.

Vincent shrugged and stubbed the end out on the brick. “Used to be everyone did. Everyone smoked, everyone drank, and nobody thought anything of it.”

“Veld smokes.”

Vincent chuckled, and something that might loosely be classified as a smile ghosted across his face. “He always did. I never bought my own, just took one sometimes if it was offered. Only polite.”

“I did not know that.”

“I don’t think it stands anymore.”

Sephiroth made a noncommittal noise, having nothing to offer in reply. He got the feeling there was more to it than that. Men who had never even thought of cigarettes had picked up the habit in Wutai and carried it home with them. It was something to do, something to focus on, something else to think of besides the carnage on every side. If the trembling of Vincent’s tightly fisted flesh hand was any indication, it hadn’t done much to relieve his anxieties. There were probably not cigarettes enough in Midgar for that. However, he had not come up here to discuss the tobacco culture of thirty years ago.

“Did you watch the films?”

Without looking at him, Vincent shook his head. “No.”

“Did Veld?”

“No. Elena didn’t either, though she’s the one who copied the footage and all the other records.”

“Why not?” Sephiroth asked, perplexed.

“They weren’t ours to watch.”

“Didn’t you wonder? Weren’t you curious?”

Vincent shrugged. “I did not need to add to my list of sins. Did I wonder? Yes. Would it be better for me to know what happened in my absence?” He shook his head, turning his red stare on Sephiroth. Although he was not angry, his eyes still glowed slightly in the dim twilight of the middle city. Even with more than half his face hidden, it was impossible to miss the pain in his expression. “No, Sephiroth, it would not.”

Sephiroth had nothing to say to that. For a moment they both stared out over the electronic galaxy created by the streetlamps, traffic lights, and lighted windows spread out below them. It was beautiful in its way. Grim and grimy thought it might be, people still lived there, still carried on with their lives. They had small concerns that involved things like paying bills and feeding their families. More dire than his own personal griefs, but more simple as well. More honest. There was very little that was honest in his own life.

“Tell me more about Lucrecia,” Sephiroth asked. “And don’t tell me ‘she was beautiful’. You’ve said that already, but you haven’t said what made her so. What did she look like?”

Vincent was silent for a moment, apparently searching for the correct words.

“She was little,” he said at last. “Even for a woman, she was small. Maybe five foot if she stretched, a hundred pounds soaking wet. Slim, slight, built more like a girl than a woman. People often thought she was younger than she really was. I guess that’s how I’ll always see her in my mind; my little sister.”

“When did you stop thinking of her as your little sister?”

“The day I lost her.” The words were pinched with regret. “I thought that she’d always be nearby in some form. And then she wasn’t. And then it was too late.”

Sephiroth gave Vincent a moment to collect himself before asking:

“What color was her hair?”

“Brown,” was the immediate answer. “Not a mouse brown, not chestnut either. It shone russet red in the sun. She was fair- not as bad as me- but enough that she’d get these little freckles over her nose.” Vincent made wiggling motions with his fingers, passing his hand before his own face, scattering imaginary dots of pigment.

“What about her eyes?” Sephiroth asked.

“Gray. When she wore her little white lab coat, her eyes were gray. It’s a funny thing with gray eyes; they don’t stay gray, they catch color and reflect it. If she wore a blue blouse, her eyes looked blue. If she wore green, they looked green. When she wore her violet dress, they looked violet.”

Sephiroth got the impression that his mother must have looked particularly handsome in this violet dress.

“You know, your…” Vincent broke off awkwardly, and looked over. “I don’t know what to call him in front of you.”

Given the fact that Sephiroth had impaled him the last time he’d referred to the Professor as his father, this was perhaps an intelligent courtesy to extend. Even after watching the film Sephiroth still didn’t believe it, _couldn’t_ believe it, but did not want to ruin this moment with arguing over…

“The Professor,” he answered. “He’s always been ‘the Professor’ to me.”

Vincent nodded. “Very well. The Professor, then. He had eyes like that as well. Not gray, but hazel. A mix of colors. You couldn’t tell on him as well, though. The ladies had much more freedom in dress. For us, it was always the same: white shirt, black tie, and a jacket- or lab coat in his case. Unusual for one with a Wutaian background, but there it was nonetheless.”

Sephiroth did not want to discuss the Professor any longer than he had to.

“What did she sound like?”

Vincent thought for a moment. “To look at her, you’d expect her to sound like a girl, but she didn’t. Her voice was high, to be sure. She and Iffy used to sing along to the radio and she always carried the top notes. When she spoke, though, her voice was lower than Iffy’s. I think she did that intentionally, so that anyone speaking to her would take her more seriously.”

A shiver ran through him, neck to navel. “What did she sing?”

Vincent shrugged. “They liked folk, mostly.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Folk?”

“Guitars? Acoustic? Old-fashioned stuff?”

Sephiroth shook his head.

“No? Before your time, I suppose.”

“Did...did she have a favorite song?”

Vincent thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I remember her humming one a lot...I forget what it’s called.”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to ask, but Vincent held up a hand, preempting his request.

“Please don’t ask me. I haven’t any ear at all. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m sorry.”

Silently, Sephiroth nodded, wondering if he ought to elaborate. He had never told anyone, not Gast, not the Professor, not Zack, no one. No one knew that ever since he was very small, a voice- a woman’s voice- had sung to him in his dreams. It didn’t happen all the time. Now it hardly ever happened, but every now and again, in the depths of sleep, he thought he could feel warm arms around him, a gentle hand smoothing back his hair, and a soft voice singing a bittersweet melody, the words of which, by the time he woke up, were lost.

It was foolish, probably only his imagination, but he didn’t think it was. Now he thought that maybe that voice had a name. The night after he’d collapsed, after Cloud had cut off Jenova’s head and the white noise had vanished, the song had come to him again. That time, he could have sworn he felt a kiss to his forehead.

Vincent had other beings in his head. He had a summon materia where his heart used to be. Surely he would understand about the dreams, if that was what they were? Sephiroth opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Although he wanted to hear that the dreams were real, and not just the nocturnal wishes of a child who had not known loving parents, they were too personal, too precious to disclose. Vincent might well understand, might even be able to provide confirmation that they were not simply figments of his imagination, but this was one secret Sephiroth had to keep for himself.

“...you okay?” Vincent asked him, interrupting his thoughts. Sephiroth just looked at him for a moment. When was the last time anyone had asked him that? He could not recall. It was especially ironic coming from Vincent.

“Are you?” Sephiroth countered.

This seemed to amuse the older man, the flicker of a smile and a brief ‘heh’ preceding his answer: “I’ll live.”

“Me too.”

With nothing else to say, Sephiroth stood. This high up, the air was cold if not clean, and the sweatshirt did not offer the same protection from the wind as his leather jacket.

“Watch the SOLDIER stuff if you can’t stand anymore home movies,” Vincent told him. “There are things in there that you really ought to know.”

“Thanks,” Sephiroth told him and climbed back down.

\--

Veld was still puffing away in the kitchen, the soft clatter and clack of a laptop keyboard accompanying the smoke. Although he must have noticed Sephiroth’s return through the window of the master bedroom, he gave no indication. Turk manners, he supposed. Plunking down (and down) on the sofa again, he pulled the laptop onto his knees once more. The CD with the files concerning himself was still in the drive, the window displaying its contents still open. Taking a closer look, there were actually fewer media files than Sephiroth had originally thought. Most of the files seemed to be scanned PDFs of old papers. He could look at those later. Indeed, he’d probably already seen most of them when paging through the journals- all of which had been stacked in his little-used office.

Oh gods. The journals!

Urgency, sharp as a stabbing blade, pierced him and he pulled out his PHS and thumbed a quick text to Tseng. There. Strange as it might seem, he felt better knowing the documents would be in Turk custody. The irony.

Returning his attention to the computer, he surveyed the movie files. The next one was short, barely more than five minutes. What could possibly happen in five minutes? It was only a film. He could always shut it off. Opening the file, he waited for it to load, and then hit “play”.

The footage was in significantly worse condition than the last film; grainy, black-and-white, and poorly preserved. Sephiroth squinted at the screen, willing the image to be clearer, but there was only so much to be done by adjusting the tracking and the speed. The shot was awkward and overhead, the camera mounted high in a corner of the room. There was a stack of folded diapers on the counter, a wooden rocking chair that looked horribly out of place amid the white tile and stainless steel, and a crib with a baby lying inside it. Evidently this had been his nursery. Sephiroth did not remember anything about this particular room. Considering he’d been less than a year old at the time, that was perhaps forgivable. He was tiny, at least to his own eyes. The notebooks had described him as unusually large for his age. It was strange to think that the little creature wrapped in a blanket was him twenty-five years ago.

The baby- he could not think of the tiny thing as himself- began to cry for no discernible reason. Perhaps it was hungry, or soiled, or simply uncomfortable. The wailing went on for several minutes until a light clicked on. Grumbling and shuffled steps on the linoleum tile floor. Sephiroth blinked as a familiar pair of hunched shoulders slouched into the room. They looked strangely empty without the long, gray-threaded ponytail hanging between them.

“Come now, Sephiroth,” the Professor muttered, lifting the baby in his arms and propping it against his shoulder. “Screaming about it won’t help.”

Sephiroth watched, bemused, as Professor Hojo put on a pair of latex gloves and changed the baby’s diaper. After washing his hands, he took a bottle from somewhere off-camera and sat down at the opposite corner from the crib to feed the still-squalling infant.

“Now how can you cry and eat at the same time, I ask you?” the Professor sighed, trying with limited success to get the baby to realize that food was well within reach. “Here’s the nice bottle, come on now, num-num…”

It was bizarre. Positively surreal. The Professor was young here, younger than Sephiroth was at present. The hard planes of his face were still there, but the sharp chin and heavy brows were softer somehow without the twenty years of scowling and squinting that had sunk both into a permanent expression of peevishness. Sephiroth had been certain this could not get any stranger when the Professor began to hum.

The tune- wobbly and off-key- was nonetheless discernible. Set in a minor key, it skirted away from sinister to resolve itself as bitter-sweet.

It was _familiar!_

He had heard that song a hundred- no, a thousand- times in his dreams. As a child almost every night he’d fallen asleep to that melody, but the voice had not been that of Professor Hojo. (He surely would have remembered _that_.) The voice had been female, of that he was certain. The melody had easily been sung an octave higher, if not more, than the Professor's humming and had not wavered once. Further, it had sung lyrics to this tune. However, like a dream before the morning sun, he could not quite remember what those lyrics had been.

But that did not change the fact that the Professor apparently knew the song too.

“I don’t understand…” Sephiroth murmured, watching the screen.

Did all people treat babies this way? Was this what it looked like for a father to care for his infant son? Had the Professor ever liked him enough to try to sing to him, even if the man could barely carry a tune in a bucket? Was this sort of coddling something one grew out of? Did parents cease this sort of attention after a child reached a certain age? But most importantly, where the _hell_ had the Professor learned that song?

Well, his mother’s voice might not be present, but perhaps her song would be. Opening the next file, he waited for it to load.

The quality on this one was not much better. The room was not the nursery, but some other part of the lab he did not recognize. A pair of makou pods similar to the ones in the Nibelheim reactor sat at the far edge of the frame.

“There now,” came a man’s voice. It was softer, less harsh than Sephiroth remembered. A moment later, the Professor, half-crouched and bent at the waist, backed into the frame.

“Come on Sephiroth, come on! Come to me! You can do it.”

He gestured, motioning toward himself. A toddler, barely old enough to do so, waddled into the frame and then into the Professor’s outstretched arms.

“Yay!” the Professor cheered, lifting the child high above his head, just short of actually tossing him in the air. The baby squealed and giggled. “Good job, Sephiroth! That’s my little soldier! Well done!”

He hugged the child close, a smile on his face. Even with two of them so close, it was hard to gauge any resemblance. Only the back of the child’s head was visible, his hair rendered as inky black as the Professor’s by the grainy film. At once, the baby grabbed at his glasses.

“No, no,” the Professor admonished- so far the only thing that rang true in the recording. “Not my glasses. Here, shall we show mummy?

_Mummy?_

The Professor set the baby down again, and then backed toward the right hand makou pod.

“Come now, Sephiroth. Come see mummy.”

The baby pushed himself onto all fours, behind in the air like a puppy. Clumsily, he got to his feet and stomped toward the Professor. A smile split the Professor’s face as he lifted the child and hugged him again.

“Wonderful! Oh well done, Sephiroth, well done! See mummy?” He turned toward the tank, pointing through the little portal. “Did you see that, mummy? See what a big boy we are? Say ‘hello, mummy.’”

“Ma…” the baby said, laying a chubby palm against the window. 

“Yes, Sephiroth… That’s your mother.” He swallowed hard, stroked the baby’s silken head with one hand. “She’ll come back to us one day. Daddy will fix it. One day.”

Hojo had put his mother in a makou pod, evidently in the hopes of one day reviving her. Was there enough life left in her for that? Was there something else keeping her alive similar to the summon materia in Vincent’s chest? Unbidden, Chaos' words echoed inside his head:

_You killed your mother, do not doubt it._

The Professor had told him as much, but Sephiroth had never considered the details before this. He now had some idea of the guilt, the pain, that Vincent must be feeling. Lucrecia’s death might have explained the Professor’s bitterness, but after the last two tapes… It certainly looked as if he loved his son. What then had changed? That was Lucrecia in the makou pod, not Jenova. Yes, his birth had caused his mother’s death, but why had the Professor told him the name of what he’d thought was a Cetra? Jenova might indeed be considered a third parent, a step-mother of sorts. Perhaps it had been easier for the Professor to refer to the mother who still lived, after a fashion? After all, had he not heard her voice in the back of his head for most of his life?

Taking a moment, Sephiroth paused and listened. There was indeed white noise, but it was low and small. It was as Chaos had said, Jenova was not dead. Perhaps, if she became louder, he could turn her words against her. He would find her and silence her permanently.

Rubbing his face with both hands, Sephiroth allowed himself a sigh, and opened the next file.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditionally, pre-Dirge canon has been that Lucrecia was not a big person.  
> My Headcanon Lu has always been small and that's what I know so that's what I'm going with.  
> Not sorry.


	23. Extended Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are siblings.

Although he hadn’t said as much, Veld hoped it was understood that the kid could stay as long as he liked. Taking the files back to Shinra HQ was probably not the best idea. Veld planned to copy the extra disks himself at least twice just to be on the safe side. One copy would go to Tseng, and the other two would be put somewhere else that was safe. Closing his own laptop, he got up and leaned out the kitchen window. Putting two fingers in his mouth he whistled sharply. A second whistle, just as shrill, echoed back. A few minutes later, Vincent met him in his bedroom.

“Goin’ out or staying in?” Veld asked him. Vincent had that extra-haunted look that he got when the sun went down. Until now, he hadn’t mentioned it, figuring if Vincent wanted or needed help, he would ask.

“Out,” Vincent told him, as he’d thought he would. Veld nodded.

“Kid’s still here. He may want to talk to you later.”

“I know. Dunno what I can tell him, though,” Vincent shrugged. “I wasn’t here for any of it. You’d be a better person to ask.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know me. He knows you. You may not have noticed, but he likes you.”

Looking away, Vincent rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “He’s a good kid.”

“Lucy’d be proud,” Veld agreed.

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t do anything stupid.”

That earned him a half-smile before Vincent stole back out the window.

It was late. So late it was almost early. Veld had planned to go on as usual, but now thought he might wait an hour or two before opening shop in the morning. Stealing down the hall, avoiding the boards that creaked, he snuck a glance into the living room.

The kid had passed out on the sofa, head cushioned awkwardly on one of the lumpy old throw pillows. Almost too long for the ancient piece of furniture, his crossed ankles were propped on the opposite arm of the sofa. Though the computer had gone dark, a field of stars endlessly receding on the screen, the laptop sat carefully balanced on his lap. Unable to resist, Veld smiled and shook his head. Dressed in sweatshirt and jeans, and having fallen asleep with the computer, the Great General Sephiroth looked more like a university student who’d succumbed to the boredom of a tedious assignment. It was funny how the years fell away when they slept. His own kids- Tseng, Reno, Rude, and the others- exhausted from a mission, had fallen asleep more than once in a haphazard dogpile. Dead to the world, their features relaxed, they’d looked as if they were each ten years old. It was the same with Sephiroth. He might be pushing thirty, but at the moment, he looked about half that. Knowing better than to disturb a sleeping SOLDIER, Veld tiptoed in and slipped the computer’s power cord into the electrical socket so that the battery wouldn’t run down during the night. Sephiroth did not stir. Carefully retreating back into the hall, Veld went to see what sleep he could find for himself.

\--

Despite any outward appearance, Sephiroth’s dreams were anything but peaceful. He was used to dreaming in black-and-white. Very rarely were his dreams in color. Tonight’s were the worst kind of fevered nonsense. Clips and fragments edited together with no rhyme or reason, blending the footage from the films and the darkest corners of his own imagination. At one point he faced an array of Professors Hojo, dozens of them, ranging from the kind father in the films to the sour-faced tyrant who had performed his physical the other week, each demanding something different. No matter where he ran, he could not shut out his mother’s sobs. When it finally occurred to him that he ought to try to rescue her, he shattered Masamune’s long blade trying to open the makou pod. He beat on the window, shouted for her, but when he peered into its dark depths, Jenova’s severed head leered back, laughing at him.

He started awake with a sharp intake of breath, nearly upsetting the laptop. He had to juggle slightly to catch it, almost falling off the sofa himself in the process.

“Mornin’.”

Sephiroth looked up so quickly he felt a vertebrae pop in protest. Veld stood just out of reach, a mug in one hand and a plate in the other.

“Hungry?”

Without waiting for further comment, he put the mug and plate down on the coffee table. More coffee, and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

“Take as long as you need.”

Bemused, Sephiroth watched as the older man wandered out of the room and out of sight.

_Turks,_ was the only thing he could come up with. Setting the laptop on the coffee table, he ate what had been set before him. It was simple and plain, but better than the Shinra cafeteria, he decided. Although there was no cigarette smoke to guide him, he found the small kitchen easily enough and washed the plate and mug and left them in the dish rack with the pan and plate already sitting there. One plate. Evidently Vincent was not back yet. Out the kitchen window, the miserable gray light that passed for day was filtering down through the smog and rooftops of underplate. The kitchen clock confirmed it was almost 9AM. The Turks had let him sleep late. In his back pocket, his PHS buzzed. Taking it out, Sephiroth flipped it open and scanned the text. It was from Tseng.

‘ _Library return confirmed. No overdue fees apply._ ’

Let it never be said the Turks did not have a sense of humor, grim though it might be. Smiling to himself, he snapped the phone closed and shoved it back in his pocket. There was more to go through. Hopefully he’d be able to finish in a few hours and would not have to impose on Veld’s hospitality any further.

The laptop was still waiting for him in the living room. Choosing a different section of the sofa, he sat down more carefully, but still sank an extra two inches as the springs groaned under his weight. There were still more movies, more information documenting his own childhood, but Sephiroth had had enough of that. He’d look at the rest later. Much later. Popping the disk, he put it back in the case and pulled out the other mislabeled “Loveless” CD that contained the SOLDIER information. This, he hoped, would contain less fraught material.

He should have known better.

\--

The whole of the day had passed before Sephiroth looked up from the small screen. Streetlamps shone like stars outside the black windows of Veld’s living room. Sephiroth did not notice. No tears had been shed over this discovery, but he still felt shaken and wrung-out, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. For some reason, he had not expected this.

Every SOLDIER, 3rd class to 1st, Angeal, Genesis, Zack, hundreds of clones...

And three younger brothers.

All of them carried his DNA; his and Jenova’s. Professor Hojo had wanted to build him an army that would be loyal to him. Hojo had never been the commander of an army, he did not understand that one could garner trust and loyalty by acts, by looking after your people as if they were family. Funny, a few of them really were.

He knew now why there were no female SOLDIERS. There were a few women in the infantry, and half a dozen had made the cut during the early years of the SOLDIER program, but none of them were currently in ranks. All of them had died. Not from accident, not from injury, but from illness. Every last one, upon receiving their first round of injections, had developed a mysterious, muddy rash that had spread over their bodies. Each had fallen ill, then into a coma, never to awaken. The cause of death for all of them had been listed as “undetermined”. Except that was not the case. Every last SOLDIER- both male and female- had unknowingly received something extra along with their monthly makou booster: Jenova.

The SOLDIERS had not been the only ones to receive Jenova injections. There had been a number of surrogates after the success of his own birth. It did not seem to be an attempt to breed another Ancient so much as to produce a backup should something happen to the Great General Sephiroth. Of course, he had not been a general then. Just fifteen and thrown into his first active conflict, it was perhaps understandable that corporate be nervous that he might not return. Backups had been made; three of them to be precise. Well, three of them had lived. The same could not be said for their mothers, or for the six other women who had been part of the experiment.

There were no surviving photos of Lucrecia, but these women had had the medical equivalent of mugshots. All of them bore a rather disturbing if superficial resemblance to one another: all of them were brunettes, all of them were small, and all of them had died. Evidently a woman’s body did not accept Jenova’s cells as willingly as a man’s. The first two attempts had died outright, vomiting and developing the same muddy rash and a high fever as the female SOLDIERS. The third had lived a few months before coming down with a fever, the disgusting dishwater stains beginning on her belly and spreading to the rest of her body before she succumbed. It was not until woman number seven that Hojo finally seemed to have gotten it right. The Jenova cells had to come from a secondary source; in this case via the father’s DNA. All three had been implanted with embryos already formed and growing. The mothers had lived, but only just long enough to give birth. Each cause of death had been identical: hemorrhage, toxemia, seizure. The children, however, had survived.

Yorozuyo, Yasuragi, and Katagi- according to their files- were all siblings, a little over two years separating each of them. Their bio donors were only listed as a series of numbers and letters. The same two donors- CL410627 and HS391118- had been used for all three, resulting in the same platinum hair and makou-green eyes as opposed to the usual SOLDIER blue or violet. It was not difficult to discern that these children had the same parents as he did. Lucrecia had been their mother, though she had not given birth to them, and their father… Even with the films of the Professor and himself as a baby playing in the back of his mind, he could not do it. The movies might as well have been of someone else. He had no memory of the kind father and his awkward humming, joyful hugs, or pride in his son. Not wanting to dwell on the Professor, Sephiroth brought the boys’ photos up for examination.

There was similarity in each face, as well as differences; variations on a theme. They looked like each other, one could tell they were related. Whether they looked like him… Sephiroth brought up his own ID photo against theirs. The picture was old, taken when he was closer to twenty than he was now. He had the widest eyes of any of them, his chin a bit rounder, and his nose- strangely- a bit longer. His hair was also the fairest, almost white instead of the silver-gray shared by the younger three. Then again, his hair had been much darker when he was their age.

At ten, Yorozuyo was probably closest to him in resemblance, sharing his wider eyes, but the short haircut did much to throw it off, and his face was more square in every respect. Yasuragi, age eight, had grown-out feathery hair swept to one side. While his facial shape was closer, he had more narrow, almond-shaped eyes. Katagi, only six, was such a good blend that it was hard to pick out individual features. Perhaps by the fourth child, the gene pool had been mixed well enough not to favor one parent over the other? Maybe it was just because he was too young and simply looked like a child. He too had almond-shaped eyes, but his face was rounder and softer. Here, Sephiroth could understand what Vincent had said about him looking like his mother.

Except he _still_ didn’t know what she looked like. Like Katagi, apparently, and like himself.

Did they know they were related to each other? Did they know they were related to _him_?

Probably not.

According to their files, they had led an existence similar to his. Each had been kept separate from the other two. If they knew of each other, it had not been documented. What would he say to them? Should he say anything at all? Not just yet, he decided. There would be time enough for family reunions. He had more immediate business to address.

This explained the mass desertion when Genesis had defected. His troops- whether by love or genetic decree- had followed their commander. Had Angeal chosen a similar path, Sephiroth had no doubt a third of the SOLDIERS would have followed him as well. And if he himself were to leave? Comparing the number of defectors to those that still remained, even accounting for those loyal to Angeal, it was not an even division. Troops designed to be loyal to General Sephiroth outnumbered all others almost three to one. At first horror had shivered through him at the knowledge, then disbelief. Now, however, an almost giddy sense of power was rising up inside him, almost but not quite managing to buoy the crushing sense of responsibility. These were his men. _His_. They would have followed him anywhere even before this, but now...

The phrase ‘you and what army?’ chased through his mind, triggering a slightly deranged laugh. At least there was no one around to hear it.

_This one,_ he thought. Professor Hojo might not know it, but he’d handed him a way out, an ace to keep up his sleeve should he need it, and Sephiroth had a feeling he’d need it soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Jack for the variation on the names of the Advent Children. <3


	24. Laid to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the competition is eliminated.

_“Sir, I have some...concerns...regarding Professor Hojo.”_

_“Indeed,” the President responded dryly._

_“I’m worried about his health,” Gast went on. “Lately he’s begun muttering to himself, talking to Dr. Crescent as if she were still with us. He never leaves the lab. I haven’t seen him sleep or eat in days. I’m afraid he’s becoming unstable…”_

_There was more, infinitely more, but Gast tried to keep an open mind. Ifalna had told him that grief could do funny things to a person. Hojo would not harm Sephiroth, he did not doubt that, but the incident with Vincent- gods rest his soul- had unnerved him. More than once Gast had thought about preparing a sedative and stabbing into Hojo’s rear end, just to get him to sleep for a few hours. Sleep-deprivation was probably half his problem, an unwillingness or an inability to process his wife’s death the other._

_“Do you feel he’s dangerous?”_

_“Well no,” Gast conceded. “No, I don’t believe he’s a danger to himself or others.”_

_“What about the project.”_

_This was a more sticky subject. “He needs some time off,” Gast began carefully. “Nothing’s happened as of yet,” unless one counted Vincent, “but I’m afraid it will. Call it a hunch, a gut feeling. Not scientific, perhaps, but there it is.”_

_The president nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Perhaps a new assignment, then.”_

_Gast blinked. “Sir?”_

_“You wish to conduct more research concerning Jenova, correct?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“What about the Northern Crater? What was that report you last left me?”_

_“Oh- yes, it is believed that some sort of calamity from the sky fell to earth there. Not long after, the Cetra as a species died out.”_

_“Do you believe there is anything to be found up there?”_

_Gast nodded. “Most likely. Perhaps a small expedition to start?”_

_“Yes, take your assistant and do some preliminary research. See what you can find and I’ll see what I can do in the way of funding.”_

_“Oh, well, thank you, sir!”_

_The president watched as Gast bowed himself out, beaming with excitement. President Shinra smiled and shook his head._

_“You’re letting him go off with the woman, sir?”_

_“I’m hardly letting him go, Verdot. He’s still on the payroll, they both are, and we know where they’re going. Some of your people will go with them, undercover of course. Can’t have anything happen to the last of the Cetra.”_

_Veld blinked. “Sir?”_

_“Come now, don’t play dumb. It doesn’t become you. You know, I know, Gast knows. The only person who doesn’t know is Hojo, and I’d rather keep it that way. Let Gast have his honeymoon. She could do much worse than his brilliant mind and heart of gold. Gast’s only downfall is that he’s far too trusting. Sephiroth may or may not hear the voice of the planet. Let them do the work of breeding more Cetra for us. In due time, we can follow their children to the Promised Land.”_

_Veld had nothing to say to that, and so held his silence and his military posture, continuing to stand rather stiffly at parade rest. With his eyes, he watched as President Shinra wandered over to one of the enormous windows of his office. A small flock of pigeons had settled on the ledge outside._

_“Do you know anything about birds, Verdot?”_

_“Not...particularly, sir.”_

_“The thing about birds, is that some species, when caged, cease to sing. They see the bars of their prison, and know that they cannot fly away. They lose heart and remain silent. They can be domesticated, but they need to believe that they’re free, that they can fly away at any time, otherwise, their spirit becomes broken.”_

_“I see, sir.”_

_“Two should be enough,” the President went on, bringing Veld back to the present with a start. “One for each of them. A pair who don’t mind the cold and don’t mind each other. That should do very well, I think.”_

_“...of course, sir.”_

_“That is all, Verdot.”_

_“Sir.”_

_\--_

_This had not at all gone according to plan. The idea had been to see if the Turk’s body would accept foreign tissue. On one hand, it had. On the other…_

_“For gods’ sake don’t let it escape!” Hojo shouted, dashing down the hall after the beast. “Sedate it, shoot it, just stop it!”_

_“Hojo what the hell?!” Gast demanded, flattening himself against the wall and barely avoiding the spikes of the beast’s lashing tail. The thing careened down the hall, leaving deep gouges in the tile with every step. A small group of soldiers and a trio of Turks had come up to deal with the chaos and the beast ran right for them. Although they held their ground, it did them no good. The creature tore into them as if they were no more than toys. Bullets riddled its thick hide, but they might as well have been insect bites for all the damage they did. Standing on its hind legs it roared, the noise shaking the light fixtures and making the windows vibrate. Frantically, Gast loaded the tranquilizer gun while the soldiers tried to keep the creature busy._

_The infantry, as ever, wasn’t much use. They were brave enough, he’d give them that, but all too soon they lay scattered in various postures of injury or unconsciousness across the hall. That left only the Turks. They’d sent up the one with the facial hair and the katana, the buxom blond with the shotgun, and the one with the prosthetic arm with a pistol in each hand. Considering the rifles of the infantry had not even penetrated the beast’s outer coat, Hojo didn’t see what good a couple of handguns were going to do._

_‘You only got to hit ‘em once. Don’t matter where. They ain’t gettin’ back up.’_

_Of course!_

_Hojo ducked an errant spray of bullets from the Turk with a gun in each hand._

_“CAREFUL!” he snapped over the unholy ruckus. Ifalna stood not far off, crouched in the shelter of a doorway._

_“Ifalna, go to my locker,” he told her. She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I have a gun there, big and old. It’ll at least take some of the fight out of him.”_

_His locker was not that far away, but required her to leave the safety of her hiding place and race down the other end of the hall. Gast had fired the tranquilizer once, and though he’d landed a good shot, the beast did not even notice the little feathered dart stuck out of its shoulder._

_“Go,” Hojo urged her, “I’ll cover you.”_

_Cover her using what, he wasn’t sure, but she went just the same, scurrying down the hall behind him. A cry of pain drew his attention back to the Turks and the beast. The two-gun lay on the floor, clutching his side, a puddle of red rapidly spreading across the tiles. The blond with the shotgun tried to draw the creature away from her wounded comrade. Judging from the beast’s howl of rage, her bullet had penetrated its flesh. However, all it had truly done was anger the creature further. It bore down on her, fangs bared and jaws slavering. She managed to fire off one more shot, catching the thing between its beady eyes, but it only shook its head and roared all the louder. It might have bitten her head off had not the one with the katana rushed forward, stabbing the beast in the breast. It yelped in pain, and shook him off, pulling the sword from its flesh with oddly sapient hands. It cast the sword away, the weapon clattering across the floor leaving a trail of thick black blood. Behind him, Hojo heard a locker slam. So did the beast. Leaving off mauling the Turk, he turned and rounded on the hapless science department staff behind him. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the sword._

_It had been ages he’d held a katana. Never much good at sports, Hojo had not ever considered himself an athlete. The beast charging towards him, he could not think, only react, muscle memory from a lifetime ago clicking into place as if it had been only yesterday. If the Turk had not managed to hold the thing, he didn’t see how he could, yet his arms wielded the blade surely, deflecting a blow from the great claws and slicing at the more delicate flesh of the beast’s inner arms and belly. He actually got a few cuts in before it roared and lunged at him. Stars sprang before his eyes as his head connected with the linoleum, the creature’s hot breath on his face. This was it. He was going to be eaten, his face bitten off and spat back out at him. A deafening ‘CRACK’ and a surprised shriek from Ifalna, however, changed his mind. The beast howled in pain, staggering back a few steps before shaking off the shot. Scrambling to his feet, Hojo noticed a hole in its chest, a long trail of syrupy blood staining its fur._

_“Shoot him again!” he ordered, glancing back at Ifalna. She sat in an awkward heap on the floor, clutching her arm. The kick of the ancient revolver had been too powerful for her, knocking her clean off her feet. Dropping the tranquilizer, Gast grabbed the revolver and struggled with it for a moment, trying to force the hammer back for another shot. The creature, however, was not about to stick around for that. Dropping to all fours, it charged through the nearest door, sending a shower of glass and splinters in all directions._

_‘Oh gods. Lu!’_

_Hojo darted after it, katana still in hand. The rear lab was a much smaller, much tighter space than the hallway and the creature spiraled awkwardly, knocking things over with every movement._

_“No!” Hojo cried, racing to put himself between the beast and Lucrecia’s makou pod. “Get back! Get out!”_

_Madness had seized him. He no longer cared if the yellow fangs should crush his skull. This beast, this THING, was not touching Lucrecia. Raising the katana, he swiped at it, shearing off fur and drawing blood. He dodged, swung, and dodged again, feeling clothing rip and skin split. He paid no attention. It lunged at him, forcing him to duck and sidestep so that now the creature was between him and the pod._

_“Hojo!” Gast’s voice rang out a split second before the shot. The creature’s head whipped back, black blood gushing from its throat. It tried to howl, but only vomited blood onto Hojo and itself. Drunkenly, it staggered about the room, still angry, destroying anything and everything it touched. Hojo tried to stab it, tried to draw it away, but its trajectory was already set. The beast lumbered towards Lucrecia’s pod and collapsed into it._

_The tank shattered as if made of glass, bits of steel and drops of makou exploding all over the lab. A wave of sea-green liquid washed over the floor, flooding the room and soaking everything in sight. It receded quickly, the liquid rapidly running away across the linoleum tile until it was no more coating of wetness. In the middle of the floor lay its contents._

_Lucrecia lay half-twisted on the tile as if drowned, hair soaked dark and tangled about her face like seaweed. The blue-green tint to her skin from prolonged submersion only added to the image as she lay in a mirror-like puddle of makou._

_“No…” Hojo sobbed, falling to his knees and tearing off his lab coat. “Lu… Hold on Lu… Don’t look at her!” he shouted, glancing over his shoulder at Gast and Ifalna. Tenderly, he draped his coat over her._

_“Prep the other pod!” he barked at the assistants who stood goggle-eyed, staring at the scene. “And get that creature out of here! Put it in one of the isolation units.” Damn the Turk. He did not care about his life, only Lu’s. No one moved._

_“Damn it, I said prep the pod!”_

_Movement at the edge of his field of vision caught his eye. Ifalna had sunk to her knees next to him, the makou staining the white of her own lab coat a brilliant blue-green._

_“Seiji,” she began softly._

_“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “Only Lu calls me that…” He sniffed, knuckled an eye with one hand._

_“Professor Hojo,” she tried again, carefully laying a hand on his shoulder. “She’s gone.”_

_“No she isn’t,” he insisted. “She’s right here. The makou will preserve her. I can fix this. I know I can. She’ll come back, I just haven’t figured out how.”_

_Swallowing hard, Ifalna blinked at her own tears. Mutely, she shook her head. “You cannot bring back what’s already departed,” she told him gently. “Lucrecia has gone. Her soul has already returned to the lifestream.”_

_“Then why is she still here?” he demanded. “Her body is STILL HERE! She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t still alive!”_

_He was crying in earnest, tears pouring down his cheeks, but he seemed not to notice. When she pulled him into a hug, he did not resist. She held him as he sobbed into her shoulder, smoothing his back while he clung to her as if she were the only thing left in the world._

_“Not everyone departs all at once,” she said softly. “Lu had a lot of makou in her system, even more now, plus the Jenova. It will take longer for her body to return to the planet, but Lucrecia herself, your wife, the person you loved...she’s already gone.”_

_“I can’t…” Hojo sobbed, shaking in her arms. “I can’t… Not yet…”_

_“You have to. She can’t rest if you don’t say goodbye.” Reaching, she smoothed his bangs back from his damp face. Behind his salt-spotted glasses, the pain in his green-brown eyes was still sharp and fresh. Sephiroth was nearly two, but for Hojo, Lucrecia’s death was a wound too recent, too raw to attempt to treat. For a long moment he said nothing. He nodded, swallowed hard, knowing she was right but unable to agree._

_“I can’t do this by myself…” The words were so small, so frightened. They sounded strange coming from his mouth, almost as if someone else was speaking. Swallowing hard herself, Ifalna hugged him close._

_“You don’t have to. We’ll be right here with you.”_

_“I know but… Sephiroth…”_

_“He still has his daddy,” Ifalna told him gently. “He’s little yet. Can you take care of him?”_

_Hojo opened his mouth to say no, but she asked him again before he could answer:_

_“Can you feed him?”_

_“Well...yes, but…”_

_“And change him?”_

_“He’ll be potty-trained soon…”_

_“Can you hold him, talk to him, show him that you love him?”_

_“I...suppose…”_

_“Then that’s enough,” she said, smiling for him. “You don’t even need us.”_

_He looked up sharply, panic written in every line of his face. Gathering his hands together, Ifalna held them in hers. “But we’ll be here to help you, whether you need us or not.”_

_Mutely, he nodded, calming somewhat at her words._

_“You can do this. We’ll help. But first, you need to say goodbye to Lucrecia.”_

_Closing his eyes on more tears, he nodded. With a shuddering breath, he reluctantly agreed:_

_“Alright.”_

_\--_

_Lucrecia lay in state in the rear laboratory for several days. Her skin returned to its usual pallor once some of the makou had dried out, adding to the illusion that she wasn’t dead, just deep in stasis. Her figure had also recovered somewhat. Despite having only just given birth when she’d been put in makou, her body had retracted significantly, and she looked no worse than any other nursing mother. For a moment Ifalna doubted her own persuasions, then shook her head. No. Lucrecia was dead. Her friend was gone. There was nothing anyone could do to bring her back._

_It had been almost a week, and Ifalna was on the point of saying something when she found Hojo fussing over the corpse. He’d brushed Lucrecia’s long hair and wound a yellow ribbon around it into a ponytail as best he could. He’d placed the crystal earrings in her ears, and was just fastening the strand of pearls around her neck. Noticing her footsteps, he looked up and shrugged at the confused tilt of Ifalna’s head._

_“I...I wanted her to look nice…” he stammered. “She always wore these. She didn’t look like herself without them…”_

_Ifalna had known many an old woman who had insisted upon being laid to rest in her wedding dress, no matter if it was two sizes too small. Who was she to judge if Hojo wanted to send Lu back to the planet in her holiday best? He accepted her help in wrapping Lucrecia in a clean white sheet, and let her pray over the body, though he was not a religious man himself._

_“Thank you,” he told her, and meant it. Ifalna nodded._

_“Where will you lay her?”_

_“I have something arranged,” he said, waving her off. “You don’t have to worry.”_

_She took him at his word._

_\--_

_No one questioned him when he asked for time off. Word had gotten around the lab about what he’d done concerning Lu. Though no one had said anything about it, it was only too clear what they thought. All of them were pretty well convinced at this point that he’d well and truly lost it, but he didn’t care. So what if he was mad? Weren’t all the best scientists mad? Their genius acknowledge only years after their deaths? Ifalna had assured him that it wouldn’t always hurt this much. It was true, the stabbing pain upon first losing Lu had dulled a bit. Now it was more of an ache, a still-healing fracture too weak and tender to bear any weight. Keeping Lu around was only going to worsen the injury. Ifalna had been right. It was time to let her go._

_He did not tell the crew of the submarine what was in the various packing cases. All they knew was that he was going on an expedition to the waterfall cavern to collect further makou samples. There was more to be done concerning Lu and Dr. Valentine’s research on stagnant makou. It was not a lie. Not really. It just wasn’t the only reason he was going there._

_He had the sailors unload the cases for him and then shooed them all away. The Crystal Cavern had a bit of a reputation, and he did not have to work too hard to get them all to retreat back to the sub. He waited for them to settle, to lose interest. For several hours he puttered about the cave, drawing the necessary samples, taking measurements and photographs and- as he’d heard one of the sailors put it- “sciencing”._

_When he was sure they were all lazing about, smoking cigarettes and talking about women, Hojo finally opened the equipment locker. It was a good thing Lu was so tiny. Even an inch more and she’d never have fit. Carefully, he lifted her out and cradled her in his arms like a bride. She had never been heavy, but seemed pitiably light now. With a sigh, he hugged briefly and then stood. Knowing what he had to do, but hating it all the same, he carried her to the edge of the makou fountain._

_There were hundreds of small dark pools throughout the cavern. They might look like mere puddles, but he had not managed to find the bottom of any of them. The spring in the center of the cavern, however, bubbled up from the planet’s crust in glittering, crystalline liquid. Kneeling down at its edge, he carefully unwound the binding from around her face._

_It was so strange. She did not look dead. She did not even have that eerie, doll-like appearance of one whose spirit had already flown, leaving behind only a familiar-looking shell. She just looked beautiful. Cradling her head against his shoulder, with his free hand he smoothed her bangs back from her face, rightened an earring that had flipped upside-down, touched the strand of pearls at her throat._

_‘There’s nothing there,’ he had to remind himself. ‘It’s only her body. Lu herself is gone. It only looks like her.’_

_Though she was not breathing and her skin was cold, he still couldn’t quite believe it._

_She would have a beautiful tomb. All around them, the crystals glittered, fragments of color shining everywhere from the light of the setting sun. He was almost out of time. Standing, he waded into the pool. There was short ledge just before it dropped off into the abyss and he stood at the edge of it, looking down. His arms shook, not from holding her weight, but at the thought of having to let go._

_There should be words to say over her, but he could not think of any. Ifalna would have known, but she was not here. He had wanted this to be their secret, his and Lu’s._

_Grimoire Valentine, the blasted Turk’s father, had died here, his soul sapped by Chaos. Had it not been for his chivalry, Lu might not have ever made it to Nibelheim. Would he have ever met her? Would he still be standing here now? He supposed he’d never know._

_‘Chaos,’ he thought, ‘Lord of Entropy, I entrust to you the body of your most devoted servant.’_

_He could not make himself let go. His arms would not unclench. The makou swirled around his knees, the fountain’s depths a deep blue-green like the scales of a dragon._

_Of course…_

_‘Leviathan, dragon of the seas, guide my beloved’s soul back to her people, that she may rest in peace and in honor.’_

_It was funny the things that lingered in one’s memory. The prayer had been pounded into his brain as a child, but he had not thought of it since. Now his arms felt tired, Lucrecia’s slight body suddenly too heavy to bear. Feeling his eyes well up, he closed them against the threatening tears and leaned to kiss her one last time._

_‘I love you...’_

_She fell from his arms, the shroud trailing from her shoulders like angel’s wings as she sank. Instinctively he reached out a hand to pull her back, to catch her up and hold her close, but she was already gone. He stood frozen, watching as she drifted farther and farther away. Had it been water he might have thrown himself in after her, but it was not. Makou was breathable, and though he might lose himself to the endless knowledge of the lifestream, he would not die. Besides, he thought with a sigh, there was Sephiroth to think of. The project was still there, as were Gast and Ifalna and the damn Turk. He still had things to do. Yet he could not get up. Not until the last light had faded did he manage to drag himself from the pool’s edge and collect his equipment. It was difficult to make sure he had everything, but he’d have to do so now. This was Lucrecia’s crypt, a sacred place, and he would not be coming back._

_\--  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the Turks sent up to deal with the mess were Reeve, Scarlett, and Veld.


	25. Takeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sephiroth gets a pet, and Zack and Aeris have their first argument.

Rather than climb over rubbish and rooftops as he had after Vincent, Sephiroth walked. He wanted the distance, the exercise, the time to think. CD’s tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt, he wandered farther and farther down toward the slums. Vincent had not yet returned, and Veld had been unable to estimate when he would be back.

“I really can’t tell ya,” Veld had said with a shake of his head. “He comes and goes as he pleases. Can’t get him to carry a phone either. He’s not used to it yet, keeps leaving it here.”

Vincent had indeed left his PHS behind, and Sephiroth had pocketed it, intending to return it to Vincent once he found him. It seemed likely that the former Turk would be down in the slums, putting the fear of Holy into the local thugs. Therefore, he wandered farther down into the perpetual twilight of underplate, the air becoming more acrid and stagnant with every step. 

The street where they had engaged earlier was empty. Even the shell casings from Vincent’s expired rounds had been removed. There was, however, a rather disquieting trail of blood meandering off into a small alleyway. Hand on Masamune’s pommel, Sephiroth stepped forward. The sounds of bone crunching and flesh tearing met his ears. At his feet, the blood oozed more thickly on the broken pavement. Although he now suspected a monster of some sort, he was not prepared for the scene at that met his eyes.

“Vincent?”

A familiar blue beast looked up from its bloody meal. At once its ears perked and its tail began to wag.

“ _Seppppppphiroth_ ,” it growled, jaws not intended for speech drawing out the syllables. Sephiroth blinked.

“ _Alpha-son,_ ” the beast whuffed, leaving its kill to come over and sniff at him. Sephiroth held still as the beast’s nostrils traveled over him, sniffing around, but mercifully not directly at, his crotch. Satisfied, it let him scratch its ears before returning to the pile of blood and offal on the pavement. There were similarly stripped carcasses lying about.

“Vincent…” Sephiroth began, but trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. “Vincent, you don’t need to eat vermin. If you were hungry…”

“ _Gallllllian,_ ” the beast rumbled, ears flat.

“Excuse me,” Sephiroth apologized, the memory finally clicking into place: 

_Well it was either the ‘puppy thing’, as you put it- who calls himself the Gallian Beast, by the way- or Chaos._

He had forgotten the conversation during the trek down to the Shinra mansion laboratory. This was not Vincent, but one of the creatures who shared his body. A hungry one, apparently.

There had been many times when there had been food present, but he had not seen Vincent eat. When Sephiroth had managed to catch him in the act, Vincent had only ever used his right hand, the left kept folded and out of sight in his lap. Indeed, he rarely used his left arm. Narrowing the instances further, Sephiroth realized the only times the prosthetic had been employed was when Vincent was running on adrenaline and acting on instinct. He blinked, realization dawning: Vincent had never learned how to use his arm.

Whether Gallian had truly wanted to hunt, or Vincent simply wanted to avoid embarrassment at mealtimes, he did not know. Gallian was clearly sentient, but he could not speak the way a human did. Once Vincent had calmed enough, he would revert. Perhaps, in this instance, he would return to normal when he was no longer hungry?

“Alpha-son, hm? Has Vincent told you something different from what he’s told me?” he asked, stepping a bit closer, but not enough to seem as if he wanted to steal Gallian’s meal. “Or do I just smell like a Valentine?”

Gallian gulped the last tangle of entrails and licked his chops. Horn-crested head tilted to one side, Sephiroth wondered if the beast had understood? Abandoning the remains of his dinner, Gallian padded over on all fours, spiked tail wagging for all the world like that of an enormous retriever.

“ _Alpha-son,_ ” he barked, nudging Sephiroth with his snout. Smiling, Sephiroth scratched the beast’s ears again, making his tail wag furiously.

“You know, I’ve never had a pet before,” Sephiroth mused. Gallian looked at him askance. “Not that you’re a pet, of course,” he amended hastily. The beast stretched and slurped his cheek. Judging from the look on Gallian’s face, Sephiroth was pretty sure he’d made it deliberately sloppy.

“Touche,” he commented, wiping Gallian slobber off his face with his sleeve. “I’m not sure what Midgar leash laws are like, but we don’t need people coming after us. Would you mind playing along?”

Gallian looked rather indignant for a moment and then gave an unmistakable nod.

“Thank you.”

The beast followed along at his elbow, keeping formation as well as any soldier. When Sephiroth stopped, he sat down, and though there was rubbish enough to tempt him strewn all over the street, Gallian ignored it. Although they drew several wary glances from those who dwelled in the slums, no one said anything. Sephiroth had no doubt that word would spread about his “dog”. Just as long as no one recognized him. He did wonder, however, when Vincent would revert? Hopefully, Gallian would let him know.

Their walk took them past the edge of Sector 5. Near the old city wall, a spire loomed. A church? Sephiroth had not known one was still standing. Perhaps this was the same building Zack’s girlfriend kept her flower garden? Deciding to investigate, Sephiroth veered off the main road and ducked through the hole in the concrete wall.

There was more rubbish piled here, but it was close enough to the wall that real sunlight filtered through the gap between the top of the wall and the bottom of the plate. The church had seen better days, half the roof had fallen in, but the steeple and many of the colored glass windows were still intact. The thick wooden doors stood ajar and Sephiroth shouldered one open, Gallian going ahead, nose to the ground. Ears lifting, he bounded forward.

“ _Beta!_ ” he yapped, galloping toward the altar.

“Whoa! Hey, down boy!” a familiar voice echoed down the aisle.

“Zack?” Sephiroth asked.

Zack did not answer right away, pinned beneath Gallian who was slurping his face, he was laughing too hard.

“Okay, okay, you got me! I give!” Zack laughed, finally managing to shove the beast back. Obediently, Gallian sat down, tail wagging happily.

“What are you doing down here?” Sephiroth asked.

“Me?” Zack squinted into the depths of Sephiroth’s hood, eyed Masamune’s pommel sticking up from above his shoulder. “Do I know you?”

“It’s just me,” Sephiroth said, pulling his hood back. Zack blinked.

“Damn,” he mused. “I guess I got used to looking at you in full uniform. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in civvies before.”

“Me either,” Sephiroth remarked, eyeing Zack’s grubby jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing down here?”

Strangely, Zack blushed. He ducked his head as he got to his feet, trying to hide the color in his cheeks. “Diggin’ in the dirt.”

Sephiroth tilted his head to one side, curious. “Why?”

Zack shrugged. “Aeris is gone. Someone’s gotta take care of the flowers.”

“Have you heard from her at all?”

Zack shook his head. “Nah, I haven’t heard from her since she left with Cloud. I’m worried about her… I hope she’s okay…”

Gallian cocked his head, evidently trying to track what the humans were saying. Standing, he circled Zack, sniffing him.

“Easy there, Chief,” Zack remarked, gently steering Gallian’s nose away from his fly. “I love you, but not that much.”

Sephiroth bit back a chuckle. “He won’t invade your personal space too much.”

“Good to know. So is this Vincent or...?”

“ _Gallllllian,_ ” the beast growled.

“Right, nice to meet you.” Zack held out a hand and Gallian gave him a forepaw. The handshake, however, was closer to that of two businessmen concluding a deal. Dropping Zack’s hand, Gallian began sniffing about the flowers.

“What the heck are _you_ doing down here?” Zack asked him.

“Tracking the monster from Nibelheim,” he said, nodding at Gallian who was busy inspecting the church. “Vincent agreed to play decoy.”

“Any leads on the _actual_ monster?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Just putting on a show, then?”

“Reconnaissance. Vincent had some information for me.”

“Ah. Gotcha. Eh?”

Zack looked down as Gallian punched his leg with his snout, a strip of pink satin trailing from his jaws.

“What the…?” he began, taking the ribbon from Gallian. It wasn’t even wet.

“ _Mate,_ ” Gallian whuffed. Zack flushed as pink as the ribbon.

“Er, not quite,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I mean we’re serious but not _that_ serious… Her mom would kill me.”

“Her mom?” Sephiroth echoed. Aeris had told him her mother was dead.

“Yeah, their house isn’t that far from here. She’s sweet. Good cook too.”

“Has her mother heard from her?”

Zack shook his head. “No, Aeris hasn’t come back to Sector 5, or at least, I thought she hadn’t.” The ribbon in his hand, however, seemed to suggest otherwise. “Do you think she left this on purpose, or do you think she was attacked?”

“Calm down,” Sephiroth told him. “Look around. Think. Does it look like she was attacked?”

Even Turks would have left signs of a struggle. Although the nave was strewn with debris, fallen roof timbers and broken tiles, all of the detritus was old. Even Aeris’ box of gardening tools had been untouched when Zack arrived to pull weeds.

“No,” Zack breathed with some relief. “No, she wasn’t attacked. Not here, anyway.”

Sephiroth patted his shoulder. Zack was still staring at the ribbon.

“Gallian, where’d you find this?”

“ _Box,_ ” Gallian barked, going over to the modified tool box that held Aeris’ collection of gardening implements.

“She hid it in with the tools,” Zack mused. “She knew I’d find it. She knew I’d be the only one likely to find it.” Giving a frustrated sigh, he pocketed the strip of satin. “I love her but I could smack her sometimes. I bought this to keep her safe. It’s not gonna do her any good if she’s not wearing it.”

“She probably doesn’t know,” Sephiroth pointed out.

“True,” Zack conceded. “Hey Gallian, where ya goin’?”

“ _Mate,_ ” Gallian huffed, and trotted off toward the rear of the church. Sephiroth blinked.

“She must still be in the city. There’s no way he’d pick up a scent trail over a month cold.”

Zack was already racing after the beast, one end of Aeris’ pink ribbon trailing from his pocket.

 

\--

 

Gallian, nose to the ground, led them on a rather circuitous route to Sector 7 and a familiar-looking SOLDIER bar.

“She’s at Cleo’s?” Zack asked, bewildered. “I’ve been here like three times in the last month and I haven’t seen her.”

“ _Mate,_ ” Gallian insisted, shoving him towards the building.

“ _Girlfriend,_ ” Zack corrected. “It’s a step or two down from ‘mate’.”

The beast’s expression indicated that Zack was not fooling anyone. Shaking himself, Gallian gave a plaintive whine.

“What is it?” Sephiroth asked.

“ _Alpha,_ ” Gallian replied, looking pained.

“Shit, we gotta find some place for him to revert,” Zack said, scanning for convenient alleyways. “Over here.”

He darted around the corner of the building to an area with two dumpsters hemmed in by a rotting plank fence. It provided just enough cover that no one was likely to notice so long as they didn’t make too much noise. Giving Gallian what space they could, Zack and Sephiroth stood with their backs to him, watching the alleyway. The beast whined, clearly in pain, the pitch dropping abruptly and the sound becoming more human. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Sephiroth noted a familiar red cloak. Vincent knelt on the broken pavement, massaging his head with his flesh hand.

“You okay?” Sephiroth asked, crouching down next to him.

“Yeah,” Vincent grunted, doing his best to shake it off. “Fine.”

He didn’t look fine, but flowed to his feet somewhat less gracefully than usual.

“You might wanna lose the cloak,” Zack commented. “There’s no ‘wanted’ posters yet, but there will be.”

“Of course,” Vincent muttered, pulling it off and rolling it up under one arm. Without, he seemed to diminish slightly. His outfit was obviously borrowed, both the shirt and the trousers not quite long enough and rather too wide for his narrow body.

“Come on,” Zack told him, gently herding him toward the entrance. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“...do I need to worry about being recognized?” Sephiroth mumbled underneath the blaring guitar music coming from the juke box. Zack shook his head.

“Just keep your hood up and your voice down. I didn’t recognize you in that outfit, but I knew your voice.”

“Right.”

Zack led them toward a booth in the back, ushering Sephiroth in first and then scooting in beside him. Vincent sat down opposite, holding the rolled-up cloak over his left arm, the better to conceal his claw.

While the waited for a server, Zack pulled his wallet out, the heavy chain connected to it clattering against the abused wood of the tabletop. Sephiroth opened his mouth on the point of offering to pay when two things occurred to him: this was a cash business, and even if they did accept debit cards, flashing his Shinra ID was not likely to go over well for him or anyone else. He would have to make a note to hit the ATM in the Shinra cafeteria at some point. It seemed unfair that Zack should have to sacrifice his income when Sephiroth had more money than he really knew what to do with. It wasn’t that he made a fortune every year, he didn’t. As a general he was certainly well-paid, but it was more that he never bought anything. Shinra supplied most anything he could possibly need and he’d never developed the habit of acquiring trinkets like CDs, movies, and fashion-forward clothing the way his subordinates did. Maybe he ought to do something about that? Actually, what he _should_ do was drag Vincent to a tailor so he could stop borrowing Veld’s clothes.

The cuff of Veld’s shirt was easily two inches short of reaching Vincent’s bony wrist. Eyeing the bared skin, Sephiroth’s eye caught the edge of a faint white line. Something inside him went cold and he eyed the older man suspiciously. Vincent’s limit breaks didn’t just trigger by themselves. So far as he knew, Vincent was incapable of transforming at will, which meant something must have happened to set him off. He’d watched Vincent put his own gun to his head, tear into his own flesh with his claw. Sephiroth did not want to believe this sort of behavior was ongoing but if it was, they were going to have words about it. Many words.

Vincent caught him looking at him and blinked. “What?”

Now was not the time. He’d talk to him later. Which reminded him. Digging in his pocket, Sephiroth produced Vincent’s PHS.

“Here,” he said, handing it across the table. “You left this. It won’t do you any good if you don’t have it on you.”

“Thanks,” Vincent said, pocketing the phone.

“You guys want some snacks?” Zack asked. “The food here’s amazing.”

Sephiroth bit his lip against a smile, Vincent simply looked amused. Suddenly his expression snapped to one of concentration and he lifted his chin, nostrils twitching. Both Zack and Sephiroth watched him as he turned his head and eyed one of the servers.

“She’s over there.”

There were three servers, all female, collecting food and drinks from the bar. One was little and blond, another was taller with curly black hair, and the third was Tifa.

“Which of these things is not like the other,” Zack mused.

It was Tifa who came over to serve them, the black-haired waitress heading to the other side of the bar.

“Hey guys,” Tifa smiled. “What can I get for you?”

“How ‘bout a word with Aeris?” Zack asked, cutting right to the chase. Tifa blinked. “Look, we know she’s here. Just tell her to meet me out back in ten minutes, okay?”

“Uh, okay…”

Zack waited only as long as it took for Tifa to bring their drinks. Excusing himself, he wandered toward the men’s room and the rear exit.

 

\--

 

The black-haired waitress was already waiting at the bottom of the rear steps. Zack had to admit, the disguise was pretty good. He thought he recognized the wig as one of Miss Cleo’s before she’d grown her hair out, and the thick-framed glasses drew one’s attention away from her brilliantly green eyes.

“Hi,” Aeris greeted him sheepishly.

“You,” Zack began, “were supposed to skip town. What are you still doing here?”

“I couldn’t leave,” she protested. “What about my mom? What about the flowers? What about _you_?”

“Aeris I’m a SOLDIER 1st Class, I can take care of myself. I’m more worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said indignantly. “Besides, I have Angi to protect me.”

“Angi?” he echoed. As if on cue, the creature dropped down, landing at his feet. Sniffing him, it chirruped a greeting.

“My gryphon,” Aeris explained, reaching down to pet its head. The creature mewed in pleasure and rubbed up against her legs like a cat.

“I guess that’s something,” Zack conceded, “but Angi can’t hold off a platoon of SOLDIERS or a squad of Turks.”

“Tseng wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Then who dragged your ass up to the Science Department?” he tried to keep the anger out of his voice but did not quite succeed. Aeris scowled.

“...it wasn’t Tseng,” she huffed, crossing her arms and turning away. “Besides, you’ll need my help.”

“With what?!”

“Jenova.”

That brought him up short. “Jeno-- Wait, what? How do you even know about that?”

Aeris lifted her chin. “Tifa told me. Not that I haven’t known about Jenova for ages.”

Now he was thoroughly confused. “I… Is this another Ancient thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Who else did Tifa tell?”

“Just me. She didn’t even actually tell me, I told her.”

Zack just stared. “Beginning, please?”

Aeris sighed. “Okay. When Cloud snuck me out, he took me here. His friend Tifa works here, he knew she would help me. But when she asked why Shinra kidnapped me I had to tell her something! I mean, she went up to the Nibelheim reactor with you guys, I figured she was safe to talk to.”

Zack groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Okay, well, at least it’s still on the inside. How is you being an Ancient gonna help us?”

“I can help you track Jenova. I can hear the voice of the Planet, and while it’s hard with so many people in the slums, I can tell that it’s kind of freaking out. I could help you! I could!”

Smiling, Zack shook his head at her. “Okay, okay. You know that’s not my call to make. I’ll talk to the General. In the meantime, lose the hair.”

“Huh?” she blinked.

“The wig,” he nodded at the inky black curls. “Take it off.”

Glancing to the right and the left, she pulled the wig off, her auburn braid spilling down her back.

“You left something,” he said, stepping around behind her.

Her smile was audible. “You found my ribbon.”

“Yeah, I did. That was a dumb thing to do, but I’m glad you did it.”

“Why was it dumb? I knew you or maybe mom would be the only ones to find it.”

“Actually, Gal- er- Vincent found it. You left it in a good hiding place, but it was dumb to take it off.”

“Why? It’s just a ribbon.”

“You ever wonder why the accessories at that stand were so expensive?”

“Because it’s real satin?”

Although she couldn’t see it, Zack smiled and fluffed the loops of the bow he’d tied around the base of her ponytail so they stood out. “It’s intended for combat. Blue ribbons used to just go to whoever won the round. You can get them in all kinds of colors now, but they still do the same thing: they guard against any handicaps your opponent may throw at you. So long as you wear it, this ribbon will keep you safe.”

She was very quiet as she turned around to face him. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”

Zack smiled for her. “It’s okay. Just promise me you’ll wear it, okay?”

Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him close. “I’ll never take it off. Ever.”

“Good. Now put your hair back on. The guys are probably wondering what happened to me.”

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gallian was snacking on a couple of [Wholeaters](http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/List_of_Final_Fantasy_VII_Enemies?file=Whole_Eater_FF7.png).
> 
>  
> 
> Also, a note about Ribbons:  
> Ribbons are a recurring accessory in the Final Fantasy universe. They are one of the rarest and most valuable accessories in the game. Ribbons nullify status ailments (ie: poison, confuse, frog, small, petrify, sleep, silence, etc.) during battle. There are only two Ribbons available for purchase and both can only be bought at Mideel before it floods. After which, if you want one, you have to use Morph magic on THE MOST obnoxious non-boss enemy in the WHOLE FREAKING GAME: a Master Tonberry. Tonberrys can only be found in the Northern Crater.
> 
> So yes, Zack's present was more than just a hair tie. Aeris didn't know it, but he was doing his best to keep her safe when he couldn't be there.
> 
> A [little pic](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Ribbon-584878975?ga_submit_new=10%253A1453000386) of Zack, Seph, Gallian and the ribbon.


	26. Private School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which homeschooling is preferable.

_  
Something must have gone wrong, but he could not for the life of him think of what. Sephiroth had not heard the voice of the planet. True, he was only five, though he looked at least eight, but every test had proved negative. Although he was one-third Cetra, and was twice as mature, twice as developed as any other child his age, it seemed the experiment had been a failure. It was hard to believe his beautiful, green-eyed boy could fail at anything. All the same, the report had been sent. Sephiroth would not be leading anyone to the President’s beloved Promised Land that flowed with makou energy. Hojo didn’t much care about that at this point. It was a disappointment to be sure. He and Gast and Ifalna had all wanted to see what insights the child had to offer regarding the Cetra, but none had been forthcoming. Gast had suggested that perhaps he was too young, that they might have to wait until adolescence set in before Sephiroth would begin to exhibit any latent abilities. Ifalna, rather tellingly, had remained silent. She thought her secret was safe, and it was in so far as Hojo was not about to tell anyone else that she could hear the voice of the planet while his son could not._

_Had Lu been here, she might have been allowed to take Sephiroth home. Perhaps they would have been a happy family. Not a normal one, to be sure, but happy in their way. He and Lu had been happy. It had not been the sort of wild, passionate romance so often depicted in the cinema, but he felt confident in saying that they had been happy together if only for a few short months. Maybe Sephiroth could have been sent to school; taken out of the lab and put in amongst other children, peers, friends. But Lu was not here. She was gone. And now Ifalna and Gast were leaving too._

_“NOW he approves your funding? After four years?”_

_“President Shinra wanted to be sure, just as we did,” Gast told him, stuffing files into a box. “I know it’s disappointing, but maybe Ifalna and I can discover the missing piece. We still don’t know terribly much about the Cetra. If we can uncover more, maybe we can help.”_

_“Maybe,” Hojo reluctantly agreed. “And what about Sephiroth?”_

_“He still has you,” Gast had smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”_

_And then they had left. Both of them. Gone, just like that. His only friends, his only family, the only other people in the world who had been there from the beginning. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. There was still the Turk, but he wasn’t going to be any help, just a nuisance. Inwardly, Hojo sighed. Some things never changed._

_‘A nuisance, yes,’ she agreed. ‘However, he may yet be useful. The child is still too young, far too young.’_

_“Too young for what? To hear your voice? To understand?” For months Hojo had been hearing her voice himself, the many makou and Jenova self-treatments finally paying off. At one time he’d thought she was simply the voice of his own doubts, but now he knew better. The Cetra was speaking to him as she’d once spoken to her own people; thought to thought, feeling to feeling. He still missed Lu dreadfully, but with Jenova in the back of his mind, he didn’t feel so alone._

_‘Yes, too young to hear, to understand, but he will. He will be great, a prince among his people. All others will look to him for guidance, for protection, to lead them.’_

_“Do you think so?”_

_‘Of course, our love. But the child, our son, he must be taught. A prince without strength and wisdom is no ruler at all. He must be trained, tested. He must learn. We shall teach him.’_

_The use of the royal ‘we’ had thrown him at first, but she had been queen among her people. It only made sense that she would still speak like a monarch. But she was not the ruling party he needed to persuade._

_“Perhaps. First we’ll have to see what President Shinra says.”_

_\--_

_“The boy has not heard the voice of the planet, then?” President Shinra remarked, setting the report on his desk. “That’s disappointing.”_

_“He hasn’t heard the voice of the planet YET,” Hojo insisted. “Sephiroth is only five. In every other aspect he is above and beyond developmentally. As you can see in the report, he looks and behaves more like a seven or eight year old despite his age.”_

_The President nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, very impressive. However, the goal of the project was to revive the Cetra.”_

_“With respect Mr. President, there is not yet any proof that we haven’t. We have no idea if the Cetra were born speaking to the planet or if it is something they grew into. Indeed, it might be a mark of adulthood. Sephiroth may not hear the planet’s voice until he’s thirteen or so.” There was every indication that Sephiroth would probably begin puberty around ten or eleven, but there was no need to rush. Hojo wanted every advantage, every second he could gain for the boy._

_The President nodded congenially. “I see. You’re right, of course. I had not meant to imply that the project should be scrapped. Sephiroth is an exceptional child, after all. I suggest adding him to the SOLDIER program. He’s already above average strength and intelligence. Physical training would be good for him.”_

_“Indeed, Mr. President,” Hojo began, amazed at the steadiness of his own voice. “The SOLDIER program would benefit from such a candidate.”_

_“Good, have the boy transferred to Deepground.”_

_Hojo felt his mouth go dry, his insides cold. It took an active force of will not to swallow. Deepground, so named for its location on Old Midgar soil, deep within the bowels of the new Shinra building, had a decidedly sinister reputation. It had started innocently enough as an intensive care unit for mortally wounded soldiers. Now however… If the rumors were true, if the reports were to be believed, it had mutated into something else entirely. Yes, he had given his own child to the Jenova project, but infusing a baby with the cells of an ancient race of other humans was one thing. What happened down there... He’d read about the little girl who had taken to stabbing her keepers with forks and pencils because she no longer felt pain herself, about the little boy who’d pulled his mother into a black hole upon leaving her womb, and his elder brother who wore chains so heavy they would have crippled a behemoth but only barely restrained his unnatural strength._

_No, Hojo vowed to himself. No, Sephiroth would not have the likes of THEM for playmates._

_Manners and decorum had been drilled into him as a child; courtesy and honor above all else. Therefore, he closed his eyes and nodded, making a small bow out of the gesture._

_“Actually, Sir, I’d like to keep him here.”_

_The President blinked and frowned, not angry so much as confused. “The Science Department? Why?”_

_“I’ve seen the files on the current program,” he said, allowing himself a sneer. “Chaos. It’s not experimentation so much as mucking about blindly without rhyme or reason. True experimentation is methodical, intentional, deliberate.”_

_“Get to the point, Professor.”_

_“Mr. President, every experiment needs a control. Sephiroth will be that control. He’s already twice as tall, as strong, and as smart as a child his age should be. It’s possible he may yet hear the voice of the Planet as he matures. Let him be trained here, privately, away from the others in Deepground. After all, you’ll need a general to command all these SOLDIERS.”_

_The President stared at him with narrowed eyes and then nodded thoughtfully. “You raise a good point, Professor. Very well, have the boy trained separately, and we’ll see in a few years if he’s fit for command.”_

_“Thank you, Sir.”_

_\--_

_Hojo nearly melted with relief once safe inside the glass confines of the elevator. Allowing himself to slouch against its transparent wall, he tried to steady his breathing, to calm his racing heart. That had been too narrow an escape, and he was not yet done fighting for Sephiroth’s safety._

_‘Peace, our love, peace,’ Jenova’s voice drifted around him like music, as did the sensation of arms around him in an internal hug. ‘The child will be safe. No harm shall come to him. We will teach him, train him. He will learn to defend himself and all shall fear his might and wrath.’_

_“I don’t know about that,” Hojo chuckled weakly as the elevator slowed to a stop with a ‘ding’. “How am I supposed to train a five-year-old for SOLDIER? Yes he can read and write above level, but he’s still a baby. MY baby.”_

_‘He need not conquer nations today,’ Jenova soothed, sounding amused. ‘Must not every journey begin with a single step? Put a wooden sword in his hands. Let him train with the other raw recruits. Will your sit-ups and push-ups harm him?’_

_“No,” Hojo agreed, breathing finally steady. “No, of course not.”_

_‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘There is always the Other. If you fear for our son’s safety, you can always test him first.’_

_He didn’t mind her referring to Sephiroth as hers. He was, after all, one-third Cetra. She had reason to be concerned about him, and she did have a point. Although the first attempt to conduct an experiment on the Turk had ended in disaster, it had also yielded some interesting results. Apparently the Turk was profoundly allergic to Jenova, but at the same time he’d survived a supposedly fatal disease that had eradicated the Cetra as a species. He should have died. Indeed, everyone- himself included- thought he had. Except the Turk had miraculously revived in the midst of his own autopsy, which had been rather awkward for all parties involved. There was extensive damage to be repaired, but the Turk’s body had accepted all manner of foreign tissue- a lung, a liver, bone and skin grafts, and gallons of blood- with only the same, unique complication each and every time: a physical manifestation of a different guardian creature. Or, in layman’s terms, a new limit break._

_The demon Chaos he had anticipated, considering the Turk had a summon materia implanted in his heart. The other three had been more of a surprise. The Turk had survived Geostigma, but not without sustaining some damage. His liver had needed to be replaced. Not just a lobe, all of it. Out of curiosity, he’d selected something different out of the inventory of organs. It was not the right blood type, not even the right species, and yet the Turk’s body had accepted both the foreign flesh as well as the blood. Once he was well enough, he’d taken the Turk out of the makou tank to see what would happen. A Behemoth had happened, a species once thought extinct. If he could bring back a Behemoth, surely his son would grow to hear the planet, to hear his mother’s voice just as Hojo himself did? The incident had cost the Turk several ribs that had had to be replaced. He’d taken the skin and bone from a man who’d suffered his own scientific misfortunes. When that creature had surfaced, the force necessary to take him down had cost the Turk a lung. He replaced it with one from a woman. She wasn’t much to look at when she came to the front. Indeed, Hojo felt rather sorry for the poor creature, but he couldn’t very well take her out of the Turk’s body now that she was part of it. Jenova was right. Whatever he threw at the Turk, he would recover from. The other beings in his body would keep him alive. A useful quality, considering what he would soon have to do._

_Deepground began its training young. The children there were only a year or two behind Sephiroth and were already undergoing combat training. He’d seen what they were being subjected to in order to build their endurance, their immunity, their ability to bear up under pain. Sephiroth would be expected to undergo similar training. Hojo swallowed hard. It would have to be done, but better by his hand than the savages who made their home around Reactor Zero. They were not parents, they were not even teachers. At best they might be considered commanding officers, but ‘jailors’ was closer to the truth. They did not care about these children, not the way he cared for Sephiroth. Well, discipline was part of being a parent. It would have to be done, but in this case, it would be done in love.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on dates:  
> Squenix is horrid about giving us information for a solid timeline. Yes, one can extrapolate information from the few hints we are given in the FF7 compilation, but the end results make ZERO sense.  
> Like, seriously, NONE.
> 
> Therefore, I have come up with my own dates for the Deepground crew. Rather than try to apply actual dates, let's just put it this way:  
> Azul was born the fifteen years before Sephiroth and joined Shinra when he was eighteen, and Deepground when he was twenty-eight. Rosso is three years younger than Sephiroth, Weiss is a year younger than Rosso, and Nero is a year younger than Weiss.


	27. Where Nobody Knows Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Turk, a SOLDIER, and a General walk into a bar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not Dirge Rosso.
> 
> She is not wandering around in a bad Hexadecimal cosplay, nor does she sound like Natasha of Moose-and-Squirrel fame.
> 
> This is not Dirge Rosso.
> 
> You're welcome.

“So,” Sephiroth began once Zack had left. “What happened?

“Beg pardon?” Vincent asked.

“What brought Gallian out?”

The Turk said nothing, only shrugged. “It happens.”

“Does it?” Sephiroth countered, feeling the Disapproving Commander look steal over his face.

“It’s nothing. No one got hurt. You got to meet Gallian. He’s easily the mellowest of the bunch. I don’t mind it when he takes over.”

“No one got hurt?” Sephiroth echoed. As if reaching for the drinks Tifa had left, he stretched across the table and took hold of the other man’s wrist, shoving Vincent’s cuff back to expose four long scars, obviously freshly-healed by magic. “This doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

Vincent shook him off roughly, a snarl pulling at his lips.

“You can lecture me when you’ve got four other people vying for space in your head and _not before_ ,” he growled. Sephiroth blinked. It had been a long time indeed since anyone had dared to speak back to him.

“I take care of my men,” he shot back, growling himself in effort to keep his voice down. “Forgive me if I take exception to you slicing yourself open and eating rats!”

“What I do with my time is not your concern.” Vincent’s voice had become low and flat, a dangerously calm tone that Sephiroth had often used himself. He didn’t much care for being on the receiving end.

“It _is_ my concern,” he insisted. “Shinra’s actively looking for you now. Yes, I know you can run them off, but what if they catch you in mid-transformation?”

“I can take care of myself!” Vincent snapped.

“Can you?”

For a long moment Vincent stared at him, hackles raised and eyes softly glowing in the bar’s dim interior and Sephiroth seriously wondered if he was going to punch him? Eventually however, Vincent tossed him a dirty look and downed about half his drink in one gulp. He wrinkled his nose at the depleted glass and set it down.

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re one of those beer snobs who can’t stand Midgar-Lite?”

Vincent snorted, still angry, but also amused. “This isn’t beer, this is reactor runoff. Hardly worth it.”

“Zack likes it, but he’s not exactly what you’d call ‘picky’.”

“I’d rather have a small glass and make it worth it rather than try to swallow all this.”

“You like the hard stuff, then?”

“Turk.”

He had a point. Turks- and SOLDIERS- had a bit of a reputation as a hard-drinking bunch. Both were high-stress occupations. It was difficult to get a SOLDIER drunk due to all the makou in their system. It could be done, it just wasn’t easy. Turks, however, simply had a disturbingly high tolerance for alcohol. Maybe it was part of some sort of substance-acclimation training? It seemed like an intelligent thing to do given the hazards of their work. Maybe he’d ask later, but not now.

“I only drink it to be polite, kind of like you and cigarettes,” Sephiroth mused. “It doesn’t do anything to me.”

“Me either.”

Sephiroth tilted his head to one side, confused. “Can’t you get drunk?”

Vincent shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“Because everyone at my birthday party was practically under the table. I’d had more than anyone and I barely felt a thing.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sephiroth argued.

“No, I mean I didn’t feel any different at all. I didn’t even have a headache the next day. I may as well have been drinking lemonade. Probably whatever the hell Hojo did to me.”

Well, that explained things. SOLDIERS and Turks had socially acceptable outlets when the job got to be too much. The bar was the most common, followed closely by the Honeybee Inn. Sephiroth preferred the training simulator, himself. Vincent, however, had lost an excuse for any less-than-perfect behavior if alcohol no longer affected him. And he didn’t seem the type to seek comfort among the Bees. Zack had mentioned that he’d run into him at Aeris’ church, but Sephiroth had never known any god to answer when addressed. Which left the Turk in a decidedly awkward position. Perhaps handing the reigns over to one of the creatures in his head was the next logical step? Even still, intentionally putting himself in harm’s way was not something that ought to be made a habit. Vincent would have to find another outlet, and the sooner the better. Now how had Zack put it?

“I know how that goes,” Sephiroth said by way of commiseration. And he did. His fellow soldiers- all of them a good five years older than himself at minimum- had tried to get him drunk during the early part of his tour in Wutai, before he’d become an officer. They’d never actually managed it. He’d been blitzed for approximately thirty seconds before crossing immediately into alcohol poisoning and vomiting all over the idiot whose idea it had been in the first place.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

Sephiroth looked up in time to scooch over and give Zack room enough to slide back onto the bench of the booth.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nope,” Vincent answered, shoving the remaining beer toward him.

“Awesome,” Zack replied, accepting the glass and taking a sip. Vincent wrinkled his nose at him.

“What?”

“He’s a connoisseur,” Sephiroth supplied. “Did you work things out with Aeris?”

“Kind of,” Zack admitted, a slightly guilty look on his face. “I’m not sure she gets it; how dangerous it is for her to stay here. I want her to be safe but...she said she can help us with Jenova.”

“And how does she propose to do that?” Vincent asked rather archly, Sephiroth thought. Zack shifted uncomfortably.

“She just...can, okay? You’re just gonna have to trust me on this.”

Vincent just looked at him.

“Aeris’ parents were Ifalna and Professor Gast,” Sephiroth told him. Zack blinked. Vincent, however, looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. After a moment of bewildered staring, he downed the rest of his drink with a grimace.

“So I’m guessing you knew them…” Zack drawled, mentally connecting the dots.

“Yes. Gast was the lead on the Jenova project. Ifalna, Lucrecia, and...the Professor were all assistants.”

“Ah,” was Zack’s only comment, the bewildered look taking up residence on his face.

“If she’s anything like her mother, then yes, she’ll be invaluable in figuring out how to fix this mess.” Turning Vincent flagged the blond waitress who was passing by. “Young lady? Nibel Black, please. An empty glass and a full bottle.”

She blinked but nodded and hurried to the bar where Cleo repeated a more animated version of the gesture before rummaging behind the counter for several minutes. Zack also seemed taken aback by the request.

“Damn,” he remarked. “You Turks don’t mess around, do you?”

“Nope,” Vincent replied, leaning to one side in order to dig in his hip pocket. After a moment he produced a handful of sealed letter envelopes which he then slit with the forefinger of his claw.

“Bounty money?” Zack remarked with a raised eyebrow.

“The slums is down a few criminals and a lot of vermin.” Vincent looked back at the blank stares of the two younger men. “You didn’t think I spent all my time free-loading off Veld?”

Sephiroth bit his lip against a chuckle, but Zack laughed aloud. The blond came up and placed the requested bottle of liquor and an empty tumbler on the table.

“Thank you,” Vincent told her, dropping a generous handful of gil on her tray. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks!” the girl gasped, a grin splitting her face. Something that might have been a smile pulled at one side of Vincent’s.

“Finally, something I recognize,” he remarked examining the bottle. “If you wouldn’t mind?” He asked, shoving the bottle toward Sephiroth and lifting his claw by way of an explanation. “This thing hasn’t got a bottle opener.” 

Unable to suppress a brief snort of laughter, Sephiroth took the bottle and twisted the top off for him. Clearly no one had called for this particular brand in years. The label was old, the glass dusty. The bottle itself likely was only a few years old, but the packaging apparently hadn’t changed in the last twenty-odd years. There was still this one small thing from the world Vincent had known.

Accepting the now opened bottle, Vincent poured out a measure and promptly tossed it back. The look on Zack’s face as he watched was somewhere between reverence and horror.

“I don’t know too many people who could do that,” he remarked.

“Here,” Vincent said, pouring a small amount into his empty beer glass and shoving it toward Zack. “See what the good stuff tastes like.”

“Guess this is the test of my makou treatments,” Zack observed, eyeing the liquid within it warily. “Well, bottom’s up.”

Sephiroth could not help watching intently as Zack first took a cautious sip and then gulped what was left. He coughed, slapping himself on the chest a few times.

“Some go down the wrong tube?”

Zack shook his head, still coughing. “Damn!” he wheezed. “That’ll cure ya or kill ya.”

Vincent snorted. “Rookie.”

“I fear he’s a lost cause,” Sephiroth told him with a sidelong smile. Vincent briefly returned it.

“You’re not one of those freaks who drinks Banora cider, are you?” Zack asked once he’d recovered.

“Hell no,” Vincent replied, refilling his own glass. “That stuff will sneak up on you. Nothing good comes of fermented purple apples.”

“ _White_ ,” Zack insisted. “They’re all white and sparkly like snow on the inside.”

“Either way, that’s a bridge too far for me.”

“To return to the point,” Sephiroth put in, “what are we to do about Aeris? Do you really think she’ll be safe here?”

Zack shifted unhappily and opened his mouth, but it was Vincent who answered.

“She’ll be safe. I’ll watch out for her.”

“Really?” Zack was not smiling, but he’d sagged with relief while positively radiating joy. “Awesome! I owe you, man.”

Vincent waved him off. “I have much to atone for. Besides, I believe I am more deeply indebted to the two of you.”

“Great, then you can pay for the celebratory wings,” Zack announced, reaching for the small menu card with one hand whilst flagging a waitress with the other.

“Punk-ass Wuss, Regular, Godsdamn, and Write Yo’ Will?” Sephiroth read off the menu, his tone becoming increasingly bewildered.

“That’s the spice-o-meter,” Zack explained. “As in how hot do we want ‘em.”

“Oh. How hot _do_ we want them?”

Zack snorted as if insulted by this question. “The last one. Duh. Hot wings aren’t worth it if they aren’t _hot_.”

“I see,” Sephiroth mused, agreeing that this was a rather self-explanatory concept. The blond- her name tag said ‘Elena’- took their order. It was strangely normal, sitting in the bar, eating hot wings and drinking like any other soldier. For all intents and purposes, that was exactly what he was tonight: just a guy hanging out with his friends. He and Angeal and Genesis had never done this. Could never have done this. They were all too famous, too recognizable. Suddenly, he missed them. They could have all sat at one of the big round tables in the middle of the room: Angeal, Genesis, Zack, Vincent, and Cloud too. It was a pity the new recruits had so little freedom the first few years. He understood why, but it was still a shame.

Which reminded him.

Next to him, Zack was arguing about the merits of various alcohols with Vincent, unaware of what Shinra had done to him when he earned his place as a SOLDIER. Zack carried traces of Jenova in his bloodstream as well. At present, Sephiroth had no idea who Zack was programmed to follow, but he’d be willing to bet he’d been one of Angeal’s. Well, now all the SOLDIERS were his, or would be until Shinra got around to promoting one of the other officers. But why should he wait on Lazard and Heidigger? He was general. Why couldn’t he just do it himself? There would be field commissions, Sephiroth decided, a _lot_ of field commissions.

“Here you are! Enjoy.” Elena set a plastic basket piled high with steaming hot wings. Even from across the table, the sharp, scratchy scent of Gi peppers was obvious. Sephiroth had eaten his share of absurdly spicy food in Wutai, but the wings were making him decidedly nervous.

“Awright!” Zack dug a generous wad of paper napkins out of the dispenser and dropped a handful in front of each of them. “Dig in, guys!”

Vincent eyed the basket warily. “You two enjoy. I’ll pass.”

“Too many rats?” Sephiroth muttered to himself. Zack, already gnawing on a wing, did not hear, but Vincent had.

“I think even Gallian would think twice about these. Have you ever eaten a Gi pepper?”

“I’ve had Wutaian pickled Mimett greens. Does that count?”

Beside him, Zack nearly choked. “Wait, that story’s true?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I didn’t think they were that bad.”

Zack just stared at him for a minute. “Damn.”

“So you’d say Wutaian Mimett is worse than these?”

“Well, these won’t turn you inside-out.”

A reassuring comment, if lacking in confidence. Reaching, Sephiroth took a wing from the pile, held it to his nose, and then took a cautious bite. Initially the sugar in the sauce and the subtler flavor of the meat was all he tasted, and he did not see what the fuss was about. Not until he’d chewed and swallowed did the spice hit him, making him cough. Okay, _now_ he understood. Like the earlier discussed Banora cider, the heat snuck up on one, launching a rear assault that the diner would not be expecting. Although the first shock of the spice had caught him off guard, he was prepared for it when he took a second bite. Ready for the sudden brushfire in his mouth, below the raw burn, the things were _good!_ The scorch of the peppers virtually caramelized the sugar in the sauce inside one’s mouth. While it was not a culinary experience that would be universally enjoyed, Sephiroth decided this was one he wouldn’t mind repeating.

“How’s the research coming?” Vincent asked out of nowhere. On his second wing, it took Sephiroth a moment to figure out what Vincent was talking about.

“Oh,” he said, pausing to wipe away hot sauce with a napkin. The rush of cold air into his mouth somehow made the spice worse. “I’ve read all the SOLDIER files, but only got part way through the...memoirs.”

Vincent nodded. Zack blinked and turned to look at him.

“SOLDIER stuff? What SOLDIER stuff?”

Inwardly, Sephiroth sighed. He fully intended to tell Zack, and Cloud too, about what Shinra had been doing to them without their consent. This was not, however, the time or place he would have chosen. It seemed Shinra was fated to spoil every otherwise pleasantly normal moment he might manage to scavenge for himself.

“Vincent uncovered a few things and saved the files. Shinra was going to destroy them. Among other things...there are records of all SOLDIERS receiving additional substances along with their makou boosters.”

Zack’s expression had shifted to one of alarm. “Substances?” he echoed. “Like what?”

“...Jenova.”

“Wait...that thing in the tank? That thing that Cloud beheaded and you set on fire because it used some kind of freaky mind-control to try to _make you kill us?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Bahamut’s tail, _why?!_ ”

“In their ever so meager defense, Shinra truly believed it was a Cetra. I don’t know if they still do or not. Either way, it lends the military unnatural strength and speed, so they just kept it up.”

Wiping away hot sauce, Zack was silent for a moment. “Okay. I believe you. But if that’s the case, why didn’t they just include that in the disclosure form? I mean, it’s not like the Jenova thing is news anymore? Unless they didn’t want the secret getting out. Makes you wonder what else they’re not telling us.”

“I’m not even sure where to start,” Vincent grumbled into his drink.

“Excuse me?”

All three of them looked up. A woman with shockingly red hair and brilliantly golden eyes stood at the edge of their table. Although she was tall, the ringlets brushing her shoulders made her seem strangely childlike. There was something vaguely familiar about her uniform. Although it bore the Shinra logo, Sephiroth could not place it. It was simple, gray, but with something that resembled chainmail over her torso. Strange. He’d thought he was familiar with all Shinra uniforms and insignias? There was also some sort of complicated apparatus that distantly resembled an elaborate curtain rod mounted on her shoulders. However, the odds of it being a fashion statement were supremely unlikely. It had to be some sort of collapsed weapon.

“Heya,” Zack greeted her, a smile spreading over his features as if his day had just markedly improved by her appearance. “What’s up?”

“Well I was hoping to talk to your friend, here,” she said, nodding at Vincent with a smile. It strongly reminded Sephiroth of the smiles he’d seen on Vincent: feral, demented, and not at all real. Vincent blinked and looked up.

“Yes?”

She smiled again, looking him over. “That’s funny,” she remarked. “You don’t look much like a demon to me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Vincent replied, doing a very good job of sounding thoroughly confused. If he felt at all the way Sephiroth did at the moment, it was not entirely an act.

“A demon in a red cape,” she repeated. “Tall, thin, dark hair, red eyes, and a claw instead of a hand.”

Vincent just stared at her. Zack and Sephiroth helped. Every danger alarm Sephiroth possessed was blaring inside his head, but he could not have said why. The fact that she was tracking Vincent was bad enough, but that wasn’t what was making his fingers itch to grab Masamune; the blade currently propped against the seat between himself and the wall.

“Who are you?” he asked, directing her attention to himself. She blinked as if noticing him for the first time.

“My name is Rosso,” she said pleasantly.

“This is not the man you’re looking for, Rosso,” he told her flatly. “He’s only had about eight other bounty hunters try to haul him in this week alone.”

“That so?” She looked at the three men in turn, her line of vision tracing a triangle around the table, evidently trying to extrapolate why each was important to the other? Shrugged deep into his hood, Sephiroth’s face was not easily distinguishable. Zack and Vincent, while their builds and facial shapes were in no way similar, they both had fair skin and dark hair. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her golden stare coming to rest on Vincent.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Say what branch are you?” Zack asked, ignoring the statement and squinting at her uniform. “I don’t think I’ve seen that insignia before.”

“A branch of special forces,” she said airily, “Deepground.”

Zack snorted. “Yeah sure you are, sweetheart. Deepground doesn’t exist. It’s just an urban myth.”

Beneath the table, Sephiroth touched the younger man’s leg. Although Zack’s posture and expression did not change, the ‘ _oh fuck_ ’ shivered up Sephiroth’s arm as clearly as if it had been words. Rosso grinned. This time the smile was real, and it chilled Sephiroth down to his core.

“That’s what _you_ think,” she said, reaching for the curtain rod attached to her shoulders. Sephiroth blinked, noticing a familiar face behind her. She stopped short at the click of a hammer being pulled back into place.

“I wouldn’t suggest that, my dear,” Vincent rumbled low and dangerous, pistol leveled at the back of her head. Rosso giggled.

“Oh this _will_ be fun!”


	28. Blood Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long-range weapons are a pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reiterate that this is not Dirge Rosso.
> 
> Also, fight scenes are hard.

Rosso whipped around with such speed that both Zack and Sephiroth automatically drew back as she pulled the parts of the curtain rod free. As he’d thought, it was a weapon. A short, single-edged sword in each hand, she swiped at Vincent who ducked and dodged, forcing her to dance around patrons and tables. Although she was well within range, like the thugs earlier, he did not fire on her, did not even draw his gun, keeping only just out of reach so that she had to chase after him. A lesser man might have shot her point-blank, but in a room this crowded, the odds were high that he would hit someone else in the process. The proprietor, apparently, held no such scruples.

“ _HEY!_ ” Standing on the counter, Cleo cocked her weapon- a truly impressive, tricked-out shotgun- and trained it on Rosso.

“ _NOT IN MY BAR!_ ” she shouted. “You gonna fight, you take that shit outside!”

Half a heartbeat later, the clatter of dozens of cocked hammers and the metallic slither of blades being drawn echoed Cleo’s prep of her own weapon. An entire bar full of angry soldiers stood with weapons poised and ready, all of them staring at Rosso and Vincent. Rosso seemed genuinely surprised at this turn of events and blinked at them a few times. Vincent took the opportunity to dart out the door. It took Rosso half a heartbeat to realize he’d gone. Grumbling an annoyed “Oh bother!” she went after him. Zack and Sephiroth followed right behind.

Vincent had drawn her a block or two away, toward a side street that appeared to be mostly junk. Now he had his gun out and was doing his best to keep the red-headed woman at bay. It was a tricky dance to tread; yes she wanted Vincent’s head for a bounty, but he wasn’t trying to kill her so much as keep his own skin intact. As he’d done with the other Shinra troops, he’d want to disarm her and send her running back to her superiors, tail between her legs. Even the other Firsts probably hadn’t been too much of a challenge for him. Rosso, however, was clearly proving more difficult than anticipated. Drawing Masamune, Sephiroth stepped in to help with Zack at his elbow.

It would have been exciting, even- as Zack put it- awesome, if it hadn’t been so deadly serious. Annoyingly, her weapon could work at close or long range. Rather than cross steel with lead, as Vincent and Sephiroth had done earlier- she’d locked the swords together at the hilt to make something that resembled a bastardized longbow. Holding it up like one, she fired bolt after bolt of plasma. He’d never seen its like before, and couldn’t help appreciating the sheer ingenuity of the weapon even as he grumbled curses, deflecting her shots with Masamune’s long blade. This was worse than the duel with Vincent. For one, they weren’t playing, and two, this was the first time he’d ever engaged her.

She must have had some idea of his own fighting style. Masamune and her deadly edge were no secret. However, she did little more than engage him and Zack just enough to keep them out of her way. Her true focus was Vincent, and she bore down on him with a single-minded intensity. Although her bow had excellent range and accuracy Vincent was too fast. Without a physical clip of ammunition to exhaust, it was instead her patience that eventually ran out. Sick of taking potshots from a distance, she unclipped the swords and lunged, apparently set on engaging Vincent hand-to-hand. 

Although Vincent could have shot her point-blank, he did not fire but met her blades with steel of his own. Sephiroth had never seen him use his claw much, but adrenaline and instinct were leading Vincent’s reflexes and he brought it up and grabbed one of her machetes as if it were no more than a dry stick swung about by a child. Rosso seemed somewhat taken aback by this, blinking in surprise before she recovered and brought the other blade down. He blocked it deftly with the pistol in his other hand, the shear of metal on metal sending sparks into the air. The momentum forced her arm back and brought the gun up close to her face. Finally, Vincent pulled the trigger.

Zack had to roll out of the way to avoid the shot as it went straight through her right shoulder, just below the collarbone and into a nearby building wall. A warning shot. It would have hurt; made it difficult to lift her dominant arm, but was far from fatal. She absorbed the shot as if she’d barely felt a thing and laughed before falling back, yanking the blade from Vincent’s stunned hand. He stumbled forward at that, more sparks popping from the wrist and fingers as she tore the sword away. The arm might be metal, but Sephiroth recognized an injury when he saw one and hurried to put himself between Vincent and Rosso.

“Bleed for me,” she purred, letting more shots fly. “I want to see your pretty colors.”

Sephiroth’s first instinct was to either dodge or intercept her shots; perhaps deflect the bolts of magic back at her. Vincent, however, swept in front of him before Sephiroth even had time to blink. Zack was right. It was creepy how he did that.

His narrow body jerked and he reflexively grabbed Sephiroth’s shoulder for support as the bolts struck him. Black blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, Vincent took a sharp breath, expression a curious mix of surprise and suppressed pain.

“Vincent…” Sephiroth breathed, reaching for him even as Vincent gathered himself and turned around.

“Get back…” Vincent told him, voice reduced to a wet growl, eyes gleaming red.

Ah.

Obediently, Sephiroth fell back but kept Masamune poised to cover him. Making a show of lining up his next shot, Vincent stood in clear and easy view. Rosso did not hesitate, firing a dozen more plasma darts into his body. It was not easy to beat back the impulse to rush to his side as Vincent collapsed to one knee, breathing thick and laboured.

Rosso’s giggle of triumph seemed obscene as she skipped closer to inspect her work. Tripping to a halt while she was still well out of range for Sephiroth to reach her without moving himself, she scowled, lips pursed in an unmistakable pout.

“Your blood is black,” she observed, clearly disappointed. “I thought humans were supposed to bleed red.”

A deranged laugh gurgled in Vincent’s throat, and Sephiroth felt his hackles rise, both hands tightening around Masamune’s grip.

“My dear,” he chuckled, “I am no human.”

At first Sephiroth thought he had collapsed, too badly injured to fight on. However, he’d no sooner raised his hand to cast a restorative spell than Vincent’s body began to writhe, the fabric of his cloak rippling as if in a strong wind. Knowing what was coming next, he kept well away. Rosso, however, seemed fascinated. Unaware that there was anything to fear, she approached the writhing mass of clothing and tissue that Vincent had become. She did start back, retreating several hasty steps as Vincent threw back his head and _SCREAMED_.

The noise was sharp and piercing, like nails on a blackboard. The pitch made his skin crawl, set his teeth on edge, and Sephiroth couldn’t help cringing at the sound. The creature lurched to its feet and let out a second scream; the noise accompanied this time by the roar of the mechanical blade it wielded. Face covered by a protective mask and dressed in rags, it lumbered towards her with remarkable speed. It took Rosso a good second or two to realize she ought to bring up her blades to defend herself. She did this, leaping back and out of the way as the thing charged at her. It rolled forward and beneath her shots with surprising speed. Although the creature looked undead, it was quick and agile, dodging Rosso’s barrage of fire until it was nearly on top of her. No one seemed more surprised by this than Rosso. Uncoupling the blades, she slashed at the thing, swords connecting with the spinning teeth of the saw with a sickening sound that seemed positively melodic compared to the Hell Mask’s banshee shriek. She managed to throw it off, but abruptly doubled over, the expression and green-gray pallor of her face reminding Sephiroth of Cloud and the truck ride to Nibelheim. She tried to raise her machetes, fumbled with them for a moment, apparently trying to snap them together again, but had to stop. Her chest and shoulders heaved once, twice, before she leaned over and retched. Coughing and sputtering, she tried to shake it off. While she managed to clip her blades together into their bow configuration, she only staggered a few steps before crumbling to her knees and vomiting again.

The Hell Mask bore down on her, blade poised, but Sephiroth was already there, Masamune knocking the saw blade neatly out of the Hell Mask’s hands. It screamed at him, the volume so great he could feel his hair blowing back from his face. He managed to drive the creature back a few steps before he felt the nausea creeping up on him. Even after watching the creature fight Rosso, he was not completely prepared for the speed at which it moved. Deprived of its weapon, it danced out of his reach, screaming curses at him. Ordinarily such cheap shots would not have affected him, but he found himself swallowing hard on acid and bile. Of all the times to be caught without Healing materia. It had been literally years since the last time he’d been sick, and it was harder than he’d anticipated to push past the nausea and fatigue. Doing his best to ignore the horrible gagging feeling rising in his throat, Sephiroth swung at the creature but it kept dodging, always just out of reach of Masamune’s long blade. He thrust and dodged, but too late. The thing screamed again, the sound bringing him to his knees and sending icy fire prickling across his flesh. Unable to muscle his way past the pain, he collapsed to all fours and heaved hot wings and Nibel Black all over the pavement. It was infinitely worse than the one time he’d gotten drunk. Unsure which was worse- the burn of acid, the sting of alcohol, or the bite of hot sauce- Sephiroth did his best to push past it, but only managed a brief glance up before nausea rolled over him a second time. Surely he hadn’t eaten this much? His stomach had to be empty by now.

The Hell Mask had retrieved its weapon and, holding it above its head, revved it to life. Sephiroth tried to scramble to his feet, to lift Masamune to defend himself, but his limbs had become heavy and wooden and would not obey. The creature brought the saw down, but it stopped short just above his head, the many teeth shearing sparks against the wide blade that had intercepted it.

“General, get back!” Zack cried, doing his best to throw the creature back. Sephiroth did not have to be told twice. Drunkenly, he stumbled to his feet and retreated several steps. Zack kept the thing at bay for a minute or two, but then succumbed himself as it screeched at him, collapsing to one knee and turning as green as Rosso had. The Hell Mask lifted its blade again, and Sephiroth reached out a hand to do-- he wasn’t even sure. Again the saw’s path was intercepted, this time by a metal pole.

“Aeris!” Zack cried, voice constricted, before doubling over and retching again.

Aeris, wig and glasses gone, had rushed in to save her beloved. Close combat with a chainsaw was not something Sephiroth would have expected of her. However, she did have help. Tifa was right behind her, adding punches and kicks wherever she could. Enraged, the creature screamed again and brought the saw down hard on Aeris’ staff, severing it in the middle. Aeris danced out of the way only just in time, Tifa landing a kick to the thing’s lower back. The creature fell forward, skidding on the pavement for several inches before scrambling to its feet.

“Here, sir.”

“Thanks...” Sephiroth rasped, throat raw from having regurgitated what felt like everything he’d ever eaten. Looking better than he had moments ago, Zack pressed an esuna into his general’s hands. Sephiroth hurried to gulp it before another wave of nausea overwhelmed him. It took what felt like ages but was probably no more than a few seconds for the antidote to take effect. Feeling more like himself, Sephiroth stood, accepting Zack’s offered hand. Not far off, the girls had the Hell Mask backed into the same alcove where Gallian had reverted only a few hours ago. For a moment they stood there, Hell Mask with saw poised; the two women staring it down.

“...does she know that’s Vincent?” Sephiroth asked.

“Probably,” Zack commented. “She’s an Ancient. They’re really intuitive that way.”

“Does she know she needs to kill that thing to bring Vincent back?”

Zack opened his mouth to answer, but closed it as Aeris spoke.

“It’s okay,” Aeris told the Hell Mask, dropping the pieces of her pole and spreading her arms wide. “It’s okay, nobody’s going to hurt you.”

The creature in the mask hesitantly lowered its blade though the teeth still spun, a menacing hum thrumming from the engine.

“Can you put the saw down for me? Please?” Glancing back over her shoulder, she made a shooing motion at the boys. Exchanging glances, they hurried to sheath their weapons. Suddenly Sephiroth realized he could hear the sounds of the city again. The creature had turned the saw off.

“Thank you,” Aeris said. “Could you put it down for me?”

The thing just looked at her. Bony arms trembling, it crouched and set the saw on the ground.

“Thank you,” Aeris smiled. “My name is Aeris, what’s yours?”

Without the saw to hold, it had crossed its arms over itself as if it were cold. Cautiously, Aeris took a step toward it, but the creature shrank back. Even from this distance, Sephiroth could see that it was shivering in the cold. The sad remains of an ancient jersey and cut-off trousers were not nearly enough protection from the elements. Too bad this one had not manifested with Vincent’s ubiquitous red cloak.

“It’s okay, here.” Aeris had shrugged out of her own jacket and was holding it out to the creature. Behind its mask, it tilted its head at her, clearly confused.

“You look cold.”

She was close enough now to drape the jacket over the creature’s bony shoulders. It looked at her, at the jacket, then back. Zack shifted, but Sephiroth latched a hand onto his shoulder, holding him in place as the creature lifted one skeletal hand and pushed the mask back. Sephiroth felt his lips part, heard Zack gasp next to him. The face behind the mask was not hideous or deformed, but delicate and feminine with dark almond-shaped eyes and smooth cheeks. She would have been beautiful if not for the muddy splotches discoloring her skin.

“...you’re not sick…” the woman stated, voice small and heavily accented. “Why aren’t you sick?”

“Should I be?” Aeris asked.

“No one can come near me without getting sick…”

“The ribbon!” Zack muttered, figuring it out. As long as Aeris had the ribbon in her hair, she was immune to whatever ailment she might catch from the woman in the mask. Tifa, standing perfectly healthy at her elbow, must have one too.

“Well, I’m okay,” Aeris shrugged. “What’s your name?”

“...Masuka.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Maskha. Would you like to come inside? It’ll be warmer.”

“ _Masuka._ ”

 

“Huh?” Aeris looked over her shoulder to see Sephiroth and Zack standing only a short distance away.

“She said her name is ‘Masuka’,” he told her. “Ma-Su-Ka. Not ‘Maskha’.”

Masuka eyed the men blocking the alleyway.

“It’s okay,” Aeris assured her. “They don’t bite.”

Masuka shook her head. “No, they’ll get sick. Everyone got sick. Everyone died.”

“You didn’t.”

Masuka laughed at this. There was no humor in it; the deranged cackling made Zack’s skin crawl.

“Oh no I died,” Masuka insisted. “I died. I got sick and I died. And when I woke up…” she trailed off, evidently aware she sounded as if she were raving.

“It’s okay,” Aeris old her, taking her hands. “Everything’s alright now.”

Masuka shook her head. “No, no it’s not. It’s not.” Suddenly, she began to cry.

“Shh…” Aeris soothed, putting an arm around her. “Here now, come inside. No one will get sick, it’ll be just us girls. Okay?”

Masuka did not budge, only sobbed into her hands. “I can’t… I can’t…”

“Of course you can. Come on now, it’ll be warmer inside.”

The sobs had turned to a deranged cackle. “I want to stay outside! I want to stay outside but I can’t!”

Aeris exchanged a confused glance with Zack who only shrugged, but Sephiroth thought he had an idea as to what she was so upset about.

“She doesn’t want to revert,” he explained. “She’s the only girl in Vincent’s head. I can’t say that I blame her.”

The wailing stopped abruptly as she looked up at him, eyes wide. Looking around, she seemed to notice where she was for the first time. Rosso, lying prone on the pavement, caught her interest. Clutching Aeris’ jacket close about her shoulders, she went over for a better look.

“How?” she asked, turning to Sephiroth.

“How what?” he asked, utterly lost.

“She’s too young,” Masuka told him eyeing Rosso as she lay unconscious and ill. “She’s too young to be here… She should be old. I should be old. Except I’m not. ‘Cause I’m dead. She should be dead too…”

Either she was slightly mad, or her grasp of Midgarian wasn’t as strong as it could be. Possibly both. It had been forever since Sephiroth had spoken Wutaian, but he searched the recesses of his memory and opened his mouth.

 _’Why should she be dead?,’_ he asked her. Masuka started and stood straight. For a moment she just looked at him, head tilted to one side before she answered.

_’Because all of us died. All the mothers. Some died earlier than others, but none of us lived.’_

_’Mothers?’_ he echoed.

_’They chose us for the project,’_ she explained. _’Myself and...I suppose she must have been her mother. She was much younger then. They stole us from our homes, held us prisoner. I did manual labor at first, cutting wood for buildings and support beams. That was not so bad. But when they saw that I was strong enough to bleed, they took my saw away and put me in a little room by myself. They sent men in to me.’_ She shuddered at the memory, hugging her narrow arms to her chest. _’I did not like it.’_

Sephiroth had no idea what to say to that. Words had fled from his throat, leaving him standing in horrified silence. At least his mother had- for the most part- chosen her fate. This poor woman had had no choice at all.

_’When I got pregnant, they put me in another room. I was given good food there, but I could not leave. Not long after, I got sick. My baby died, then I died, and I thought that I would wake among my family the way my grandmother told me, but I did not.’_

_’You woke up among strangers.’_

She nodded. _’They are not strange to me now,’_ she hurried to amend. _’They are very kind. It is not the same. I would like to go home...to move on...but I can’t. None of us can.’_

He nodded silently as tears began to stream down her mottled cheeks. _’I am glad her daughter survived, at least.’_

On the verge of asking Rosso’s mother’s name, Sephiroth lunged instinctively to catch Masuka as she crumbled to the ground. Instead it was Vincent, only half-conscious, that fell into his arms. At once he began the incantation for a healing spell but Aeris beat him to it. The electrical charge tickled Sephiroth’s nose, making him sneeze.

“Thanks,” he told her, helping a groggy Vincent to his feet. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Vincent groaned, his tone implying otherwise. “That’s a first. Normally she goes out of her way to hide.”

“I assume you mean Masuka and not our new friend, here?” Sephiroth nodded at Rosso, still out cold on the pavement.

“Yeah.”

“What the heck was that about?” Tifa asked.

“Some kind of bounty hunter, I think,” Zack told her, crouching to examine Rosso. “I’m guessing she’s all Shinra had left to throw at our demon in a red cape.”

Tifa raised an eyebrow and gave the men a thoroughly disapproving look.

“Okay, you should _not_ be able to do that,” Zack told her. “You’re not a mom yet. You cannot do the Mom Glare of Death if you don’t have any kids.”

Tifa rolled her eyes at him, while Sephiroth bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

“Men,” she huffed. “So I’m guessing you don’t have any further leads on the real monster?”

“Not as such,” Sephiroth admitted, “but Aeris has kindly agreed to help us with that.”

“And in the meantime, what are you going to do about Vincent? You can’t let Shinra keep sending goons after him.”

“I resemble that remark,” Zack commented with a scowl of his own.

“Stand down, Zack,” Sephiroth told him absently. “She’s right. I’ll speak to Lazard about this. Rather, we both will. Zack, you’ve just been promoted. Take her into custody and back to headquarters. I’ll take Vincent home.”

Zack blinked and saluted automatically. “Er...yessir.”

“I’m fine,” Vincent insisted, despite his mechanical arm hanging inert and at an odd angle.

“I can see that,” Sephiroth told him dryly. “I’m not letting you wander around by yourself like that.”

“Fine. I’ll come with you.”

Zack blinked, pausing in the act of scraping Rosso off the asphalt. “Wait, back to the Shinra building?” 

“Yes.”

They all looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Vincent sighed and pushed his bangs back with his flesh hand.

“Look, it’s Shinra technology. I can ask Scarlett to fix it. She’ll know how.”

Sephiroth had to admit that Vincent had a valid point. “Alright. Come on.”

“Be careful,” Aeris said, giving Zack a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek. Zack blushed and grinned, returning the kiss.

“I will. Thanks for saving our bacon.”

Aeris smiled widely. “Well, someone’s got to.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosso's official design is just silly, especially since she can't feel physical pain.  
> I therefore took it upon myself to come up with [something a little more combat-friendly.](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Rosso-Redesign-572285760?ga_submit_new=10%253A1447557802)
> 
> Many thanks yet again to the veterans of "Shinra: Year 1" and "Shinra: Year 25".  
> You know who you are. <3


	29. Space Cadet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are more questions than answers, and Vincent gets a tuneup.

They left Vincent at the rear entrance. He would make his way to the Turk offices on his own. Without him, Zack and Sephiroth and their prisoner took the elevator up to the SOLDIER offices to have a word with Director Lazard. Sephiroth had taken the unconscious woman from Zack on the way to the Shinra building. She was heavier than she looked. Still incapacitated from the Hell Mask’s curses, she hung mute and motionless, slung over his shoulder. More than one staff member looked at them as they went past. Marching up to Lazard’s desk, Sephiroth plunked Rosso down onto it like Gil on a counter and demanded:

“What the hell is this?”

Lazard blinked at the senseless woman lying across his computer console.

“It appears to be a woman.”

“Who is she?”

“I was hoping she might be your rumored sweetheart, but apparently that is not the case. I’ve never seen this woman before.”

“She said she came from Deepground,” Zack added, his scowl no less fearsome than that of his commander. “She’s some kind of Shinra. The hell’s going on?”

Lazard looked more than just perplexed. Although the primary expression on the director’s face was confusion, it was also the closest to frightened Sephiroth had ever seen him. Evidently Deepground was not just an urban myth as so many believed it to be.

“Deepground did exist,” Lazard began slowly. “It was originally a care unit for severely wounded soldiers. Officially, it was shut down and integrated into the Science Department years ago.”

“I’ve never seen her before,” Sephiroth insisted. “She can’t be that much younger than I am. The Science Department was half the size it is now when I was a child. I would have run into her before this.”

“Well, you could always follow her home?” Lazard suggested. It was not a terrible idea. Indeed, tracking Rosso would likely pose the sort of challenge Sephiroth hadn’t faced for a very long time.

“Incidentally, she cost me a lead,” he went on, deciding to take full advantage of this opportunity to vent some anger. “I had that demon in the red cape in custody when she showed up. Had it not been for her interfering, I would have been able to bring him in.”

“I didn’t send her!” Lazard protested. “I don’t know where she came from!”

Curiously, Sephiroth got the impression that Lazard was telling the truth. He honestly did not know. Sephiroth’s scowl deepened.

“Well I, for one, am going to find out.”

\--

 

Rather than wind his way to the Turk offices, Vincent headed for the stairs. True, he could have taken the elevator, he had access to all floors, but he didn’t want to be seen. He was out of uniform and anyone who laid eyes on him would be sure to raise the alarm no matter what his employee ID badge said. Not that he wanted to show that to anyone either. Happily, the Weapons Development floor was only just below the SOLDIER barracks. Stupid place for a lab, really. What if something ignited? The entire building would be blown to kingdom come. He couldn’t help thinking that were such a thing to happen, it might be just as well.

Chaos clawed at the inside of his head, urging him to climb higher, but Vincent ignored him. Now was not the time. Although he wanted revenge just as badly, he did not trust himself or any of the others to venture up to the 67th floor, especially not with a broken arm. The demon was still fighting for release when Vincent let himself into Scarlett’s office. She looked up and blinked at him once, evidently surprised to see him.

“Vin? The hell are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, but out of uniform? I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?”

“I took the stairs,” he said by way of explanation. “Can you fix this?”

Scarlett blinked again as he held up the damaged prosthetic with his flesh hand. Scarlett shook her head.

“Unless it can fire off a round, no. Sorry.”

He let the arm drop, a growl of frustration escaping his throat.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know someone who can.” Turning to her phone, she entered a number and held the receiver to her ear. “Damn, he must have gone home. Figures. These people with their spouses and their families and their white picket fences,” she mock-grumbled. Replacing the receiver, she dug out her own PHS and pushed a few buttons.

“Palmer? It’s Scarlett. Yeah, I need a favor. Any way I could come over? I’m bringing a friend. What? Yes, it’s Vin. What gave it away? Tonight? Perfect! See you in a bit.”

\--

Palmer was waiting for them, opening the door almost before they’d had a chance to knock. A bright smile and a ‘live-long-and-prosper’ salute greeted them as he ushered them inside.

“Welcome, welcome, come on in. What’s up? Is it secret and stealthy and Turk-like?”

“Nah, Vin just busted his arm,” Scarlett explained.

“The metal one,” Vincent hastened to elaborate at Palmer’s horrified look.

“Oh good,” Palmer sighed in relief.

“It’s not the same as rockets but..do you think you can fix it?”

Palmer squinted at the inert appendage, sparks fizzing at the wrist and elbow. “Hmm… Well, I can take a look? C’mon down to my secret lab!”

Smiling to himself, Vincent followed Palmer through the tiny foyer, into a pleasantly shabby kitchen, and down the basement stairs. Vincent distantly remembered visiting once or twice. The basement hadn’t been much more than raw cinderblock at the time, but it had been beautifully converted since then. The overhead lights alternated with black-painted acoustic tiles with pin-prick holes in them to mimic stars. Knowing Palmer, those were real constellations too.

The main part of the basement housed a ping-pong table, a battered sofa and some equally beleaguered chairs, and several shelves for both books and storage. Towards the rear was Palmer’s “lab”. Sectioned off with a sheet of drywall, the remaining space had been converted into a workshop complete with a work bench and shelves of all manner of electrical bits and pieces. Pulling the stool out, Palmer gestured for Vincent to take a seat. Obligingly, Vincent perched on the stool and held out his metal arm- with the aid of his flesh one- for examination. Scarlett came over to inspect it as well.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Palmer asked, carefully turning the limb in both hands.

“No,” Vincent told him. “Honestly, I can’t feel it at all. It does what I want it to, usually, but it’s lousy for fine dexterity.”

“I’ve never seen a design like this before,” Palmer mused, chubby fingers running deftly over the housing. “It’s old, but not as clunky as a lot of the other early models from this era. Assuming it’s a custom piece?”

“You could say that.”

“Hmm…” Palmer squinted, soft face creasing in concentration. “So generally it’s working as intended, but there’s no nerve additions. Does that sound right?”

“I have no idea,” Vincent confessed. “I can’t tell if I’m touching anything, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean!” Palmer told him with a smile.

“Okay then, no. No nerve additions. Or maybe they’re just not turned on. I really don’t know. I just woke up and...shiny new arm.”

Palmer nodded. “It's possible either way! I know some of the old nerve connections were a little iffy, just based on hearsay.”

“I am reasonably sure this was another one of Hojo's brilliant ideas but I can't very well ask him.”

“No,” Scarlett agreed, “That will only end in blood and tears.”

“And possibly the throwing of objects,” Palmer added, attempting to disconnect the arm.

“I don’t see any materia,” Scarlett observed. “How’s it powered?”

“Er…” Vincent stalled, “There’s a materia. You just...can’t see it.”

“Ah, okay. So it’s under the housing?”

“Something like that.”

“Makes me think of that one short story collection. Do you remember that one? ” Palmer asked, trying to do what he could with a pair of insulated pliers. “The guy had a materia implanted in his body and…” he trailed off, remembering how that particular story had ended. It hadn’t been happy. The character had essentially lost his mind; transforming into a fearsome beast and ravaging his town, eating people he’d known and loved. Evidently Vincent did remember that piece, for though his expression had not changed, his face had gone rather gray.

“Vin?” Scarlett asked. “You okay?” Reaching, she put an arm around him; she had not realized until she touched him that he was trembling. He seemed to be a million miles away, his breaths too deep and too quick.

“Right. So,” Palmer began awkwardly, straightening from rummaging in a drawer full of spare parts. Upon noticing Vincent’s distress, he promptly put the parts down and went over, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulders.

“Vin? Vin, breathe in for five, out for ten. Can you do that for me?”

It took Vincent a moment to notice he was being spoken too. Once back in the present, however, he calmed somewhat. It took a couple tries before he could follow Palmer’s coaching.

“I’m sorry,” he said once Vincent’s eyes had ceased glowing and the tremors had eased off. “I never liked that collection anyway. Too grim-dark. I much prefered the one with the insane cocktails and the towels and whatnot.”

That got him a smile.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I dunno if I wanna pop the inner housing off, but I can check the surface interface malarkey?”

“You can have the whole thing,” Vincent told him. “The shoulder cuff doesn’t come off, but the arm does.”

“That’ll make things easier,” Palmer agreed. If the arm wasn’t attached to Vincent, he wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting him.

“I’ve never been able to get it off myself. You have to like, hold it a certain way and then pull it all the way back,” Vincent told him, trying hard to execute said maneuver with his flesh hand. It didn’t go very well.

Palmer nodded and pushed Vincent’s sleeve as far back as possible, carefully extending the metal arm and pushing it back past the point where a human shoulder was meant to turn. A click and a pop and the arm came away solid and surprisingly heavy in his hand. 

“Holy smokes! This thing is a lot heavier than any of the models I’ve come across,” he observed. “Darn thing must be close to eight or nine pounds if not more! That must’ve been hard on your back!”

“Little bit,” Vincent agreed. The sudden lack of weight had sent him tipping into Scarlet’s arms before he could check his balance. Without the prosthetic, his list to starboard was more pronounced, and he had to remind himself not to lean so much to one side. Happily, Scarlet didn’t seem to mind. As much to ground himself in the here-and-now as to balance, he put an arm around her waist. Obligingly, she draped an arm over his shoulders, being mindful of his missing arm.

The sleeve of the borrowed shirt, however, did not want to let go.

“Let go,” Palmer scolded the recalcitrant piece of clothing. “Stop eating his arm or I’m going to be annoyed.”

However, despite his best attempts to wrestle the prosthetic out of the sleeve, something was undeniably stuck. Inwardly, Vincent sighed, let go of Scarlet, and started undoing the buttons of his shirt with his remaining hand. He’d purposely chosen a dark-colored shirt, the better to hide the faint glow beneath the fabric. Scarlett blinked at the dim luminescence coming from his chest; easily visible in the basement’s low light. It had also caught Palmer’s attention, but he was doing a better job of trying not to stare.

“...Vin?” Scarlett asked, voice tinged with concern.

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

He took their silence for assent and undid the rest of the buttons. Vincent stared intently at the battered linoleum tiles of the floor as the fabric slid off of what was left of his shoulder. It was better than looking at their horrified expressions. He knew it looked as if a mutant octopus had decided to nest in his torso.

“That...doesn’t hurt, does it?” Palmer’s voice was tight, as was his expression. Aside from being a bit gray, his features were actually rather indifferent. Scarlet’s eyes had gone rather wide, and her eyebrows had risen a good inch, but only in a way that asked if he was really going to wear _that_ tie? Vincent released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“No,” he replied. “No, it just looks gross.”

“Actually, I think it looks kind of neat.” Palmer was staring now, but in the way one might examine a work of art; one arm crossed over his chest, the fingers of his other hand stroking his chin. “Remember those galaxy posters I had by that one artist that used all those textures? It kind of reminds me of that.”

To everyone’s surprise- including his own- Vincent burst out laughing. They joined him at first, but after a few seconds, Vincent found he could not stop. It was still funny, but it wasn’t _that_ funny. His laughter had taken on a hysterical edge, and Palmer set the prosthetic down to come over and put an arm around Vincent himself.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent told him, somewhere between a howl and a sob. “Gods, I’ve missed you both.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Scarlet said, hugging him close and dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “It’s okay.”

“So I have the Andromeda Nebula in my chest?” he asked once he’d recovered somewhat.

“Actually, it looks more like the one of the alien ship’s galactic drive core. That’s totally what it looks like!”

Vincent laughed again, but it was more natural this time, despite the few latent tears that escaped. It didn’t take as long for him to recover either. After a few seconds his breathing had steadied and he scrubbed at his cheeks with the back of his remaining hand. Scarlet cradled his head against her shoulder and he gladly settled against her, her heartbeat reassuring under his ear.

“Man, I loved that series,” Palmer went on, poking at the disarticulated limb. “The one with the phasing alien ninja. I know it was cheesy, but the author was just so amazing. She was so enthusiastic and she knew it was over the top!”

Vincent also had fond memories of those books. They _had_ been cheesy, but in a way that was entertaining.

“Well, she knew it was cheesy and over the top and yet she did it anyway. Sort of spoofing the genre, I suppose. She didn’t take herself as seriously as a lot of the others that were publishing at the same time.”

“I think I read that one,” Scarlett remarked, now absently stroking Vincent’s hair. “Was that the one with the female lead? Who actually wore clothes and had an arm cannon?”

“That’s the one!” Palmer affirmed without looking up.

“I love those! I have the whole set, as well as some of her other stuff!”

“Oh the fantasy trilogy! That is gloriously silly!” Palmer agreed. “Her heroines kick all the ass!” 

Vincent did not reply, but their banter made him smile. Scarlett had tugged his shirt back into place for him, for which he was grateful. Palmer’s basement was slightly chilly, but not in a damp or clammy way. It smelled pleasantly of oil, electricity, and old upholstery. Although since he was so close to her, mostly what he smelled was Scarlett’s perfume. It was the same fragrance he remembered her wearing as a new recruit, before she’d had to give it up. Personal signatures like perfume and cologne were a dangerous giveaway in their line of work. But it was one small thing that was still the same, an echo of the time before he’d closed his eyes. It was hard to keep his eyes open now. It had been days since he’d last slept- if one could call collapsing from exhaustion on Veld’s couch during a pop-culture update. Then as now he’d felt strangely safe and comfortable; two sensations that had become so alien he had almost forgotten what they felt like.

He started slightly as Scarlett’s hand stroked over his head again, her fingers combing lightly through his hair. It was too long, but he’d left it go, afraid someone might recognize him with a shorter haircut. Scarlett had a boyfriend, and Vincent was not remotely interested in her, but he was grateful for the contact, for the closeness. What he’d thought was a contented sigh left his throat in a low rumble.

“Are you...purring?” Scarlett asked him, amused.

“...maybe?”

Forcing his eyes open wider, he noted Palmer’s broad smile as he briefly looked up from his work. “That’s so cool!”

“Okay, whoever built this thing was no expert,” Palmer grumbled in a remarkably annoyed tone that Vincent had rarely heard from the big man’s lips. Palmer had always been big. In his youth, he had been a star athlete; tall and strong with enormous shoulders and a barrel chest. The barrel had slipped a few degrees after so many years, and now his stomach was his widest part. Palmer, however, was a walking deception. Just as his cheerful, slightly foolish demeanor was a mask for his intelligence, the weight disguised the strength and power still present, hidden underneath.

“Why would you do that? _Why?_ ” he asked, not truly expecting an answer. “This is just… Oh dear gods. Geeze Vin, no wonder this thing was giving you heartburn!”

“Oh?” Vincent asked, not entirely sure he would understand any explanation Palmer might give.

“Okay, so this thing?” Palmer pointed accusingly at the dismembered appendage. “It has no feedback circuitry. No _wonder_ you were having issues using it! I would too if I couldn’t feel what I was doing. It’s not that they weren’t activated, they straight up aren’t there! Of all the bone-headed, hare-brained, snot-for-intellect things to do…” Still grumbling, he picked up a screwdriver and savagely began attacking the wiring.

“It...doesn’t need to be anything fancy,” Vincent hazarded by way of an apology. “I just want to be able to hold a fork again. And maybe not accidentally gouge out my own eye.”

“Is that what this is from?” Scarlett asked, brushing his bangs to one side and tracing a faint line near the corner of his eye with the tip of her finger. He couldn’t help shying away from her touch just slightly.

“Maybe.”

“You will do forks,” Palmer promised. “Also chopsticks. Wait a minute… How the…? Where…? That connects to that...which makes the rotors...but then… Okay _what_ in the name of Ifrit’s toasted buttcheeks did he even….??? _AUGH!_ ”

Scarlet snickered at Palmer’s swearing. Vincent helped.

“Your nerd profanity is a thing of beauty,” she told him, smiling. Palmer did not look up.

“I try to save the good stuff for special occasions. Oh for the love of Shiva…”

“I also miss being a two-gun,” Vincent mused, “but one cannot have everything. I’m not sure I’d trust it with a trigger.”

Scarlet nodded in agreement. “Yeah, not much traction. It would probably handle the recoil nicely, though.”

“Unless it knocked my arm clean off my shoulder.”

“There is that.”

Palmer was still grumbling to himself to an accompanying shower of sparks. “This stupid connector’s out over here, rassafrassin' insult to engineering, dang biology wonks…. How in Ramuh's sparky eternal beard do you mess _that_ up— HA!”

His shout of triumph made both Vincent and Scarlet look up. Trying hard to shake off his drowsiness, Vincent sat up straight on the stool, reluctantly pulling away from Scarlett’s warmth.

“There! I _think_ I’ve got it fixed- the main part, anyway.”

Carefully, he pulled back Vincent’s shirt and reattached the prosthetic. “Is that feelable?”

A sudden cold feeling rushed up Vincent’s shoulder and into his brain, making him inhale sharply. Where once he had felt nothing- not even pain- his left arm was now most emphatically present and it was deep, dead, asleep. He shifted uncomfortably, instinctively trying to shake out his arm even though he knew it would not do any good.

“Yeah, I can feel it,” he grunted, unsure how to wake up an arm made of metal.

“Oh good!” Palmer beamed with childlike joy.

He knew it wouldn’t help, that it wouldn’t do any good, but he had to try something. His arm burning with cold, Vincent tried to massage feeling into the flesh part of his shoulder, hoping it would flow down to the nerves connected to his arm.

Scarlett frowned at this. “Something wrong?”

“It feels like my whole arm’s gone to sleep. For like a week.”

Palmer’s radiant smile scrunched into a look of perplexity. “Hmm... Well, that’s actually pretty typical, but it should go away in a minute or two. Can you execute the time honoured spooky finger wiggles action?”

He’d managed to move the arm as a whole, but hadn’t yet tested the hand or fingers. Concentrating, Vincent tried to do just that-- but nothing happened. Still rubbing at his shoulder with his flesh hand, his fingers met a small gap that hadn’t been there before. Twisting his head, he tried to look.

“I don’t think it’s in all the way.”

“Dangit. Sorry. I got this.” Stepping closer, Palmer reconnected the arm, the shoulder fully clicking into place this time. The ice abruptly morphed to fire and Vincent jumped, unable to completely bite back a yelp of pain. It was followed by a stream of four-letter words. In vain he tried to shake it out, to massage muscles that no longer existed, all the time the pain spread like a brushfire throughout a limb that was not there.

“Oh cripes!” Palmer exclaimed. “I’m sorry! That was failure manifest…”

“Take it off!” Vincent told him through clenched teeth. It was bad enough if he held completely still, but every time he tried to move, even a little, a fresh jolt of pain shot up his shoulder. “Take it off take it off!”

Palmer hurried to do just that. It was as if a switch had been flipped. At once the pain cut off and Vincent collapsed against Scarlett, still gasping as the panic faded. Holding him close with one hand, she smoothed his shoulders with the other. Her fingers skirted too close to the biocuff, making him jump.

“Sorry!” she apologized. “Wait a minute…”

Leaning, she peered at the mount embedded in his flesh. “What the… Palmer, look at this.”

“Hm? ” Tinkering with the arm again, he left off his work to examine what Scarlett had noticed. “Where's it misbehaving?”

“I don’t think it was anything you did,” she went on. “Look. The idiot didn't bother to insulate it.”

As if to demonstrate, she nudged the wire with one finger, making Vincent jump and yelp again.

“Do you _mind?_ ” he demanded.

For his part, Palmer’s mouth was opening and closing noiselessly like that of a fish. “Excuse me,” he managed at length. Marching up the stairs, he closed the door rather loudly. Despite this, it did not do much to muffle a sudden barrage of far less G-rated profanity. Vincent and Scarlett exchanged a look. Vincent found himself struggling not to laugh. Scarlett just shook her head.

“Honestly, who leaves exposed wire like that? I mean you learn that on like the second day of Engineering 101.”

Palmer had returned, the stairs creaking with every heavy step. “I'm gonna punch Hojo. And throw shoes at him. Possibly coffee mugs as well. With coffee still in. And... Yeah. Rage. Oh the rage.”

It was as angry as Vincent had ever seen him. Normally Palmer played the role of the jolly fat man nearly twenty-four-seven, but the murderous look in his eyes was real. Visibly taking a step back, he took a deep breath and his smile returned.

“Right. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Turning back to his work table and the inert prosthetic, Palmer heated up a soldering iron. Vincent suddenly felt rather sorry for the appendage. Almost.

“Dangass wire…” Palmer muttered, sending up small plumes of steam and smoke where the iron touched metal.

Scarlett tugged Vincent’s shirt back into place, doing up the buttons nearest the collar for him so that it wouldn’t slide off again. Letting her drape her arms around him in a loose hug, he leaned his head on her shoulder. He had no idea what Palmer was doing with the circuitry- apparently installing the insulation on the connector in the arm so that he wouldn’t have to risk causing further pain by working on the biocuff directly- but his grumbling was entertaining and the comments he and Scarlett passed back and forth were soothing. She began stroking his hair again and the sleepiness began to creep up on him. With his remaining hand, Vincent rubbed at his eyes, trying hard to keep them open.

“I like your new look, by the way,” Scarlett told him softly.

“Really?” he asked, dubious. “You don’t think it makes me look like a sissy?”

Scarlett chuckled. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to look like a sissy. Personally, I think it makes you look like a rock star.”

He chuckled at that himself. “Veld said it made me look like a punk.”

“Same thing.”

Gods he was tired. But this moment was too precious to lose. Two friends- older, yes, but still here- talking about nothing in particular. It was quiet, intimate, comfortable. Too soon, it would be gone. Perhaps he was dreaming even now. Even with his arm laid out in pieces on Palmer’s work bench, it was too pleasant, too serene to last. Any moment he would wake up to either retina-searing fluorescent lights, or mouldy, claustrophobic darkness. Involuntarily he shuddered and tightened his grip on Scarlett’s waist.

“...Vin?”

“You’re real, aren’t you?” he asked, aware that he probably sounded insane, or at the very least, drunk. “This is real, right?”

“It’s real,” she told him, stooping slightly to kiss his forehead. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to disappear.”

Of course she would say that. She was trained to lie convincingly. He’d taught her himself. But he could tell a lie from truth from as little as half a syllable. She didn’t _look_ like she was lying, didn’t feel as if she were telling him what he wanted to hear. She must have noticed the question in his eyes.

“It’s _real_ ,” she promised, brushing his bangs out of his face with one hand. “We’re not going anywhere.”

She believed what she was saying, but he couldn’t make himself believe her. At best, he could only enjoy this while it lasted. Soon enough it would all be gone and he’d be back in the dark, alone yet not, with only the creatures in his head for company. It wasn’t easy to swallow the knot that had formed in his throat.

“Shh…” Scarlett soothed, smoothing her hand over his back. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Yes, for the moment, at least, she was. Holding his eyes open had become agony. He’d been awake so long that they practically burned with fatigue. The fight with the red-haired girl had left him tired, and Gallian’s meal and the Nibel Black meant that there was no hunger or itch to move to distract him. If only he could be certain that all this would still be here when he opened his eyes again, provided he opened them at all. He hadn’t noticed his eyes had fallen closed until the warm tears that had gathered spilled over. He was too exhausted to care. Whether Scarlett noticed or not, he didn’t know. Somewhere in the back of his head Gallian was purring. Gigas and Masuka were off somewhere together and therefore as happy as they could be, considering. Even Chaos seemed content, keeping his silence at some distance from everyone else.

“We’ll still be here when you wake up,” Scarlett’s voice drifted down through the haze of fatigue. “I promise.”

With no other choice, he took her at her word and let the darkness claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, enormous, extra-super-special thanks to the brilliant and talented Yukie for her assistance with this installment. Most of Palmer's remarks are hers.  
> Thanky much!!! <3
> 
> Crummy line art of [Vin and Letty cuddling](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Vin-n-Letty-Color-585045056?q=gallery%3ARubyOfTrinity&qo=1) can be found over at my [DA account](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/).


	30. Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent receives an upgrade, and everyone receives a mission.

“I have new orders for you,” Lazard told Sephiroth as he approached the director’s desk. Sephiroth wondered who else Lazard would give orders to? Lazard had authorized Zack’s promotion to Colonel, as well as several other First’s to Lieutenant, but where there had once been three star SOLDIERs, there was now only one.

“The Vice President is attempting to negotiate the details for the building of a new reactor in Corel.”

“Diplomacy has never been my strong suit,” Sephiroth replied dryly. “I’m not sure how much help I would be.”

Lazard chuckled. “You won’t be assisting in the negotiations. Not directly, anyway. We’ve had reports that Avalanche members have been sighted within the town.”

“Avalanche?” Sephiroth echoed. Normally those who styled themselves protectors of the planet wandered about barefoot, in second-hand clothing, with long, flowing hair and waved homemade signs around and not firearms. Avalanche, by contrast, had no qualms about burning down Shinra factories, killing soldiers, and generally answering violence with violence. While he admired their pluck, they’d been making a nuisance of themselves since the war had ended. 

“Yes, and this time it’s not just an isolated group of scouts or a small raiding party,” Lazard went on. “We have reason to believe their leader is with them.”

“You want me to cut off the Zolom’s head.”

Lazard nodded. “Exactly.”

“Will I be the only one going to Corel?” Sephiroth heard himself ask. It was as if a recording were speaking, discussing the details of the mission with the director. In the back of his mind, Sephiroth madly plotted out one scenario after another. Lazard did not know it, but he’d just handed him a way out. Or did he know it? _Should_ he know it if he didn’t? He still had the disks. It would take a matter of minutes to copy the information.

“General?”

Sephiroth snapped to attention as well as back to the present. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “I was...considering my options.”

“I said you can leave as soon as it’s convenient. Take a small unit with you just in case. I doubt you’ll need it, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“No.”

“Very well, go and prepare.”

“I meant, no, I disagree.”

Lazard blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The idea is to make a show of force, correct?”

“I suppose so,” Lazard answered slowly. “Did you have something different in mind?”

“I may have a reputation, but even I cannot take on the full strength of a terrorist organization by myself.” This was not strictly true, but now was not the time to boast. “I leader is only as great as the men he commands. I will not be waved like a flag before a Dual Horn. Alone I will be no more than a provocation. Have I permission to take as many men as I see fit?”

Lazard looked at him narrowly for a moment. It was not unlike facing off with Tseng. Strange to think he now trusted the head of the Turks more than his own director. He had no reason to distrust Lazard, except for the fact that he no longer trusted Shinra as a whole.

“What do you know that I don’t?” Lazard asked quietly. Sephiroth just met his gaze and kept his mouth shut.

“I see,” the director said after a heavy stretch of silence. “Do what you think is best.”

 

\--

 

There had been no nightmares this time; no mental vomit of image, noise, and pain. This time there had been warmth and silence and a feeling of safety that had not been present for a long, long time. Upon opening his eyes, it took Vincent a strangely panic-free minute to remember where he was.

Palmer’s basement looked much as it had when he’d fallen asleep on Scarlett. She had disappeared, but Veld was there. Ensconced in a venerable recliner, he’d been flipping through a battered paperback- probably one of Palmer’s sci-fi collection. Looking up, he lowered the book and smiled.

“Morning.”

Vincent rather stiffly shoved himself from horizontal to vertical and rubbed his face with his remaining hand. Someone had wrapped a hideous granny square afghan around him and it slid off his truncated shoulder with the motion. Palmer’s couch was long, but not quite long enough for Vincent’s lanky height and it was a relief to stretch his legs out again. Despite the sensation of a mild hangover, he felt remarkably not terrible.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

“Not that long,” Veld assured him. “Known kids who served in Wutai who slept longer.”

“How long is ‘long’?”

Veld shrugged. “Well, you passed out on Thursday night. It’s Saturday morning.”

Vincent stared, open-mouthed. “Are you telling me I slept through an _entire day?!_ ”

Veld remained unperturbed. “Like I said, known kids who took longer to sleep it off. They call it ‘combat fatigue’ for a reason. Anywhere from sixteen to twenty hours is considered ‘normal’ for active conflict. You may not have been to war, but you still went through hell.”

“Well,” Vincent replied after a moment’s consideration, “if I’m still dreaming, at least this is a good dream.”

Setting the book aside, Veld looked at him. “You don’t think this is real?”

“No way to tell,” Vincent shrugged, eyeing his empty sleeve. “What’d Palmer do with my arm, anyway?”

“Gave it a serious upgrade!” Palmer announced proudly, emerging from his workshop, carrying the repaired prosthetic in both hands as if bearing aloft the crown jewels.

“I may have to apply for some patents now. That was one hell of a fixer-upper!”

Vincent smiled crookedly, the expression less twisted than the last time Veld had witnessed it. “Was there any part of it Hojo did correctly?”

“Well,” Palmer began, “given the limited technology at the time, the early theories and practices of the day, as well as the fledgling development of electro-neural interface...he still dicked it up beyond mortal comprehension. He may know blood-n-guts, but he doesn’t know beans about engineering.”

Vincent laughed- a short, bark-like sound- but without the macabre tone that usually tinted any display of emotion. Palmer grinned.

“Last time you gotta show off your Sci-Fi Art Heart,” he told Vincent, approaching with the repaired prosthetic. Veld, who had not yet seen the mass of scars that was Vincent’s chest, did little more than blink as Vincent shrugged out of the shirt. Vincent, however, recognized the sudden hardness in his eyes and the unspoken vow of vengeance they held. There would be retribution for what had happened to his friend. Heaving himself out of the recliner, Veld went over and sat down next to Vincent while Palmer reattached the prosthetic.

It seemed to click into place easier this time, almost suctioning itself fast to the biocuff.

“Magnets,” Palmer explained, beaming and gently pulled the arm down. It locked into place, and Vincent felt not cold but warmth rush up his shoulder and into his neck. The pins-and-needles feeling creeped through his muscle and across his skin, but faded almost as soon as it had begun. Instinctively, Vincent rolled his shoulder and flexed his elbow. The arm obeyed immediately, elbow and wrist rippling with the motion all the way down to the fingers.

“Wow…” Vincent murmured, holding the metal hand out for further inspection. Although the exterior plating had not been changed much on the upper arm or forearm, it was considerably less bulky. The old arm had been heavy, heavier than his flesh arm and had therefore left him struggling to balance. The housing seemed trimmer, more streamlined, and there were obvious modifications in the joints and fingers. Most notably, he could actually _move_ the fingers now. Before, each digit had been little more than a sharpened talon, no more flexible than the metal they’d been cast from. Best of all, each finger was still tipped with a pointed claw, but mounted in such a way that they sat back from the edge of each digit, allowing the soft round of the finger to extend beyond the armor. Automatically, Vincent wiggled the fingers, rolled them open and closed, and practiced the live-long-and-prosper salute, just because he could.

Palmer, who was having trouble containing himself, applauded. “Oh good! Can you feel it? Does it pinch or hurt anywhere?”

Vincent shook his head. “No, it feels fine. Like, I can _actually_ feel it, but it doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“Good! Good!” Palmer was practically dancing with glee. “Oh hey- try to extend the claws!”

“What?” Vincent looked up at him, perplexed.

“The claws,” Palmer explained, “they’re retractable! You can extend and retract them with a combination of impulse and gesture. Try it! Try it!”

Vincent did as he was told. Curling his fingers in, he tried to command the claws to engage. The claws slid forward, almost like those of a cat, extending past the edges of the fingers like long nails. Straightening his fingers again, he likewise relaxed his thoughts, and the claws slid back, their sharp points no longer a risk.

Unable to express how pleased, how impressed he was with Palmer’s modifications, Vincent looked up at him and smiled. It seemed a bit rusty and out of practice, hanging slightly lopsided on Vincent’s face and really only pulling at one cheek, as if he were afraid or unable to stretch the smile any further. Vincent had never been one for outward displays of emotion, but ever since his return, his reactions to just about everything had been muted at best. For the few precious seconds that the stunted little half-smile lasted, there had been a glimpse of the young man they all remembered.

The moment was broken, however, as a voice called down: “Vin awake yet?”

“Yes,” Vincent called back, clutching the shirt to his chest.

“Oh good!” Scarlet tromped down the basement stairs, a large and frighteningly full shopping bag in each hand. “I picked up a few things for you.”

“A few?” Vincent echoed, looking down with some alarm at the bursting paper bags as she dropped them in front of him.

“Look, you needed some stuff that actually fits,” she told him a no-nonsense tone, hands on her hips. “Now pick something out and go get changed before I have to start making jokes about you getting into Velly’s pants.”

Palmer snorted, the sound degenerating into unabashed laughter. Veld, coughed, evidently caught between laughing and choking at Scarlett’s vulgar humor. Vincent just stared at her, unsure if he’d heard her correctly, then grabbed a few things at random out of the bags and headed for the bathroom.

“Shower if you want,” Palmer called after him. “I made sure your shiny new arm is waterproof!”

“We’ll be upstairs,” Veld added.

“Yes,” Palmer put in. “Fred’s making pancakes!”

 

\--

 

The new clothes felt stiff and awkward, as anything new and not yet washed was wont to be. However, it was a decided improvement to have the sleeves come down over his wrists, and the trouser cuffs pleat over his shoes. Truly having two hands was also infinitely more convenient. The fine dexterity was still a bit clumsy, but at least the black mesh that made up each finger had some degree of traction, unlike the the inflexible claws of the old model. The wrist of the prosthetic was still too wide to button the cuff, but Vincent couldn’t help feeling stupidly pleased at being able to do up the right hand shirt cuff himself. It was the little things, really.

He briefly looked through the bags before heading back upstairs. Scarlett had thought of everything, it seemed, right down to a pair of pajamas. It was a little disconcerting to know she’d bought him underwear, but it was still better than having to borrow things from Veld. Her palet, however, seemed to be rather limited. There was a lot of deep red, a lot black, a fair bit of gray, and a couple of things in Turk blue. Whatever. Vincent had never considered himself fashion-forward, and decided she would know better than he would what would be considered acceptable attire for this modern era.

“It was harder than I thought,” Scarlet’s voice drifted down the stairs. Her tone was hushed. Though not quite a whisper, she clearly did not want to be overheard. “I’d thought he’d be the same size but lying on the couch with him… He’s all angles. Literally skin and bone. Veld, why don’t you feed him?”

“I do feed him!” Veld insisted. “He’s always been a string bean, you know that.”

“Not like this,” Scarlet was adamant. “He’s like something out of Deepground. I’m worried about him.”

“We all are,” that was Palmer. Vincent could easily imagine the big man placing a consolatory hand on her shoulder. “We’ll look after him, don’t worry.”

Knowing the conversation was not one he was supposed to have heard, Vincent made sure to stomp rather more heavily than usual up the last few steps to let them know he was coming. When he emerged, everyone was seated around the wide kitchen table, all smiles, as if nothing had ever happened. Palmer’s wife Fred- well, Winifred- stood in front of the range, poking at a couple of half-done pancakes with a spatula. The griddle was huge and old; a cast iron piece that was easily as big around as a pizza tray. There were four pancakes, dotted with blueberries, arranged nearly on its sizzling black surface. Suddenly, Vincent realized he was hungry.

“Here,” Veld said, shoving a mug of coffee at him. Vincent took it and sat down.

“Oh Vincent,” Fred smiled warmly and flipped the pancakes without even looking at what she was doing. “It’s so good to see you. I’m so glad to see you’re alright.”

Rather than argue the point, Vincent tried to smile for her. He must have carried it off with some success for she smiled back. Like her husband, Winifred Palmer had always been a sturdy woman with broad hips and a bustline to match. Although her curves had grown more generous over the years, her flowered apron was knotted around a trim middle. At one time she’d worn her hair piled high on her head, starched and stiffened into place. Now, however, she wore her fading auburn curls short and loose around her face. It looked much nicer like that, he decided.

“Lookin’ good,” Scarlett told him approvingly. “I know you never wore red much, but it just looked so nice on you.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, tugging the open cuff farther down over his claw. The deep red of the oxford shirt actually diverted attention from his eyes, making them less obvious at first glance.

“Now there’s more where that came from,” Fred told him, setting a stack of pancakes down in front of him that would have seemed imposing to a lumberjack, “so eat up.”

He nodded, not knowing what to say, and hesitantly picked up knife and fork. The movement in his left hand was delayed slightly, but the grip was firm. Briefly glancing at the others, he made sure they were engaged in their own food and conversations before he tackled his own breakfast. It was not as awkward as he’d feared, and he was more than halfway through when Veld spoke up.

“I got a lead on Felicia.”

That brought everyone’s chatter to a dead stop and a thundering silence.

“And?” Scarlett prompted.

“Looks like Avalanche is looking to cause trouble in Corel.”

“Yeah, they’re the last holdout for a makou reactor,” Palmer nodded, getting up to take Fred’s place at the griddle while she ate. “Isn’t Rufus out there trying to talk them into it?”

“If you can call that talking,” Scarlet drawled, rolling her eyes. “Poor kid’s got his work cut out for him. Finn’s not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Well, Avalanche isn’t going to let Shinra eliminate the last remaining fuel alternative to makou. Besides, with Rufus there it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. They’ll try to kidnap him at the very least.”

“What the heck’s Avalanche?” Vincent wanted to know. “And what has Felicia got to do with them?”

“Right, sorry,” Veld apologized. “Avalanche is a terrorist group that popped up a couple of years ago. They’re convinced Shinra’s killing the planet with all the makou reactors. I’m not saying they’re wrong, but they’re not like the usual hippie types. These kids mean business. They’ve already blown up a reactor in Junon and tried a couple of times to do the same thing in Midgar, though without success. If Shinra sends troops in to deal with them, they’ll answer bullet for bullet. I found out about two years ago that Felicia is with them.”

“So she’s alive. That’s good,” Vincent said in answer. It must be a weight off of Veld’s soul to know his daughter was still alive, even if she was running around with terrorists.

“Yeah, it is,” Veld agreed. “Thing is, Avalanche is good at going to ground. I’ve had a devil of a time tracking them down. Normally they operate in small cells, just four or five people. This time, however, it looks like their full force will turn out. They’ll be expecting a show of force from Shinra.”

“Sephiroth?”

“He’s the only commanding officer they got left, so probably. Tseng tells me they’ve already sent a detachment of Turks with Rufus, but that’s not going to be enough. People are scared of us, but Turks don’t garner the respect we once did. People are more afraid of SOLDIERs these days, though Shinra hasn’t got too many of those left either.”

“Either way,” Veld went on, “I’m going over there. A larger group of terrorists won’t be able to move as quickly. Hopefully, I’ll find Felicia there. I was hoping you might come with me?”

Vincent nodded. “Of course.”

“Good.”

“What about the girls?”

Veld blinked. “The girls?”

Upon Veld’s suggestion, Vincent had read over the SOLDIER files, though he had not even touched the disk carrying Sephiroth’s personal information. Now, a question was beginning to form in the back of his mind.

“Tifa. Aeris. They might be of help.”

Vincent had only hinted at what had transpired at Nibelheim to Scarlett and Palmer, but Veld had gotten a fuller story. Veld was his best friend, as good as family, and no longer had ties to Shinra; an organization they’d once served that now wanted both of them dead. He’d told Veld about Jenova, although he was pretty sure at the time that Veld had thought the story was the deranged ravings of an overtaxed mind. Looking back into Veld’s level stare, however, he could see similar conclusions being drawn behind the other man’s eyes.

“Alright. Might be useful to have a couple of women along. They can go places we can’t.”

Scarlett and Palmer seemed bemused at this exchange, but had the grace not to inquire further. Fred simply poured more syrup on her pancakes. They all knew better than to ask.

“I hope you find her,” Palmer said, bringing over a fresh stack of pancakes to be handed round. Scarlett nodded and got up to get herself another cup of coffee.

“Me too.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [Dual Horn](http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/Dual_Horn_%28Final_Fantasy_VII%29?file=Dual_Horn_FF7.png) is one of the mid-level enemies you encounter in FF7. It kind of looks like a bull.


	31. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wrong is done, but the offender cannot be hurt.  
> Who then should be punished?

The guard would never be able to adequately explain to his superiors- or himself- what exactly had happened. One minute everything was as it should be. The prisoners were quiet in their cells, all present and accounted for, and then everything had gone dark. The lights had not gone out, no smoke bombs had been used, yet for the space of a heartbeat, he could not see his hand in front of his face. Immediately, he had checked the cells and found one of the prisoners gone. Vanished. As if she had never been. No alarms had been triggered, the lock had not been tampered with, and the air vent in her cell remained intact. It was as if she had simply disappeared into thin air.

\--

At first Rosso did not know where she was. One strip of fluorescent overhead lighting looked much like another. Then Nero’s face slid into view and she smiled, but only for a moment.

Oh no…

“Are you okay?” Nero asked, his mask muffling his words slightly. Sitting up and extending her arm in one swift motion, Rosso whacked him upside the head.

“Hey!” Nero protested reeling with the blow. “What was that for?”

“You idiot!” she snapped. “I wasn’t done! You brought me back too early!”

“You were hurt!” Nero countered defensively.

“I’m fine!”

“You’ve got one arm in a sling!”

“Only because they put it on me!” At once she tore it off. Although the bullet had gone straight through the meat of her shoulder, magic had sealed the wound, leaving little more than a hole in her uniform as big around as a gil and raw spot on her skin.

“You can’t feel pain, how can you even tell if you’re hurt?”

“I can tell, okay?” They’d been over this before, and Rosso didn’t care to repeat the ‘am not, are too’ sort of fight into which this could easily degenerate. “Nero… I wasn’t done. I got ambushed and the demon got away.”

“You were hurt,” he repeated. “I couldn’t leave you there.”

Rosso let out a frustrated noise and pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes. Nero was only two years younger than she was, but sometimes it felt like much more.

“Nero,” she said patiently, “do you know what they’ll do if I come back empty-handed?”

Silence thundered within the rough concrete storage room. 

“I can take you back,” Nero suggested. “No one has to know.”

As if on cue, the door swung open on rusty hinges to reveal a Restrictor on the other side. Instinctively, Rosso moved to put herself between it and Nero.

They knew.

They always knew.

“Crimson,” it said, tone flat and harsh. “Sable. Come with me.”

With no other choice, Rosso followed the Restrictor out of the storage room and down the hall, her heels echoing loudly on the bare floor. Every step made her gorge rise higher and higher until she was afraid she would vomit. She had failed. Failure was not an option. If Nero hadn’t brought her back so soon she could have figured something out, found a way to escape. Now, however, it was too late. They would be punishment for her failure, and because she could not feel pain, and Weiss and Azul were nearly invulnerable, it would be Nero who suffered for her.

 

\--

 

“Don’t,” Rosso pleaded, knowing it would not do any good, but powerless not to ask. “Please don’t!”

Instinct told her to run to him, to put herself between him and danger, but the icy grip of the restraints held her fast. The chain that bound her to an iron ring set into the floor at the other end of the room was far too short to allow such a thing. Nero too had been clapped in irons. The metal fingers of his rig lay discarded on the floor like the bones of an enormous bat. His wrists bolted to the wall on either side of his head by thick manacles, he stood straight and tall. Although he knew what was coming, the eyes above the mask looked steadily back at her. There was fear there, but no accusation. It didn’t make her feel any better.

“You failed,” the Restrictor told her tonelessly. “The mission was not successful. The demon in the red cloak was not captured. Worse, you allowed _yourself_ to be captured.”

“I didn’t say anything!” she protested. “I never told!”

“You had to be _rescued_.”

“I was sick… I was up against _Sephiroth!_ ” She could feel tears trailing down her face. “It was my fault. I know. I failed. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please don’t…”

“Failure will not be tolerated,” the Restrictor told her flatly, and tore off Nero’s mask. At once he began to gag and gasp. Born in shadow, he could not breathe pure air.

“Put it back!” she begged. “Please! Please put it back! I’m sorry! It won’t ever happen again!”

Nero jerked against the restraints he was coughing so hard, wheezing as he struggled to pull in breathable air. Rosso the Crimson who did not feel pain, who never cried, fell to her knees sobbing.

“I’m sorry!” she repeated, “I’m sorry!!”

The Restrictor simply consulted the timer. Too many minutes remained. Nero’s face was rapidly darkening from gray to black.

“Go slow,” Rosso told him, trying to coach him. “Deep breaths. It’s okay, just calm down.”

Nero tried to listen, to obey, but it couldn’t be easy for him to fight back the panic triggered by suffocation. His face lightened slightly, but the horrible rasping sound that accompanied each indrawn breath only grew worse.

“Just a few more minutes,” she tried to reassure him. “Just a few more…” 

The Restrictor eyed her, and then cranked the timer back to the beginning.

“No! That’s not fair!” The words had gone before she could stop them. Horrified, she clapped both hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t…”

The Restrictor just looked at her and added five minutes more.

Rosso heaved a great sob, both hands pressed to her mouth, horrified at what she’d done. Although so much time without his mask would surely kill Nero, she dare not protest. Too tired to struggle, Nero hung limply against the restraints, the desperate wheeze of each breath longer and slower, as if he had run a long way. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything. It was her fault. All her fault. It was because of her that he was suffering and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Anything she said or did would only make it worse. Nero could only last a few minutes without his mask. Five was bad enough. This punishment had begun at ten, and now it was fifteen. Guilt roiled in her stomach with every breath she drew. If she could have willed the oxygen from her lungs into his, she would have done it.

There were still eight minutes to go. Tears cascaded down her cheeks unnoticed. Barely blinking, she kept her eyes on Nero. It was as if he’d given up. His chest no longer heaved with effort, the rasp of his breath reduced to a rusty wheeze like a leaky pump. Eyes half-lidded, the gold rolled back so that only the black sclera showed, he seemed utterly senseless.

 _Just keep breathing,_ she thought. _Don’t stop. Just keep going. Just a little longer..._

Six minutes. The wheeze had dried up to a soft crackle. Rosso held her own breath. Surely they wouldn’t let him die? The Restrictor would intervene, cut the punishment short and replace his mask if he were truly in danger. A thin trail of saliva ran from the corner of his open mouth, jaw hanging slack and motionless.

Two minutes.

Rosso could not breathe. Could not have taken a breath if she wanted. Heart thundering loudly in her ears, in her chest, every nerve and muscle clenched tense and terrified. He had to be alive. He _had to be!_

The tiny, mechanical “ding” echoed loudly in the concrete chamber. The Restrictor yanked Nero’s mask back up over his mouth and nose and cut him down. He fell limply to the floor with a hollow “smack”, not even trying to break his fall. If he was breathing, the movement of chest and shoulders was too slight for her to see. Rosso dared not move. Pulling on her own restraints might restart the timer. She could not be responsible for killing Nero. Knowing that she’d hurt him was bad enough.

“You may think about what you’ve done,” the Restrictor said tonelessly, and left the room. Rosso tensely counted to twenty. Twice. And then scrambled across the floor to where Nero lay. He was still more than a foot out of reach. Not caring what happened to her own body, she did her best to collapse her fingers and _pulled_. The manacles were tight, and bit into her thumb and palm with a sharp and icy bite, but she didn’t care. Warm wetness ran down her hands, alerting her that she’d drawn blood. She ignored it. With a final yank she stumbled and fell, collapsing on top of Nero. Pausing only long enough to push him onto his back, she began frantically pumping his chest.

“Wake up, Nero,” she sobbed, eyes sore and burning from having shed so many tears. “I’m sorry! Wake up!”

She wished Weiss were here. He was warm and strong. He would be able to fix this. Except she could not tell him. If she did, he might kill her. As much as she might deserve it, she did not want to die. Nero groaned as her hands slid out from under her, knocking her elbows against his ribs, her blood having made his uniform slick.

“Nero!”

Behind his mask his breaths were dry and laboured, but at least he was breathing again. Curling herself around him, she did her best to press all her warmth into him.

“I’m sorry, Nero,” she sniffed, suddenly tired. Her eyes burned and her head ached. She would have cried more, but there were no tears left. “It won’t happen again…”

 

\--

 

The Restrictor came back later. How much later, Rosso had no idea. All she knew was that she felt sick and dizzy and her wrists had crusted over as well as her face. The curative spell, the ungentle scrubbing, the saline drip, all were fuzzy in her memory. All that really mattered was that Nero was deposited on the little-used bed in his room. Unable to move Nero on her own, and feeling unworthy to lie down in their nest without him, she made her way to her own room, fell face-first onto the mattress, and did not move for several hours.

“What’s with you two?”

Rosso lifted her face from the pillow, still feeling hung-over. It was Weiss. He sounded confused.

“Why are you over here all by yourself?”

“I got caught…” Rosso began and then snapped her mouth shut, remembering.

“Mission didn’t go as planned, huh?”

Letting her face sink back into the pillow, she shook her head.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” he said kindly, and hooked an arm under her middle, lifting her off the bed and slinging her over his shoulder. “Come on. It’s no fun all by myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Rosso, Nero's original character design has remained mostly intact except for one small yet very significant change: his mask.  
> I thought the Hannibal Lecter gag was pointless. Given that he's the only successful SOLDIER bred using dark makou, I thought it would make more sense if his mask was more similar to something Darth Vader would wear. (You can imagine Nero with over-the-top inhale/exhale noises if you like. XD )
> 
> Here's a [color sketch of what this Nero looks like](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Nero-Redesign-569968064?q=gallery%3ARubyOfTrinity&qo=0).


	32. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deepground is creepy, squicky, and downright unpleasant.  
> Weiss, Rosso, and Nero- having lived all their lives there- don't know that.  
> They don't even notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand the rating gets bumped up to "M". :P
> 
> Oh man.  
> I went back and forth on this because what follows is not generally how I write. However, this is what fell out of my head and I had to do SOMEthing with it. The rule at PIXAR is that The Story Is King and...well...this IS pertinent to the plot.
> 
> So. This next bit? So intensely Not Safe For Work.
> 
> You CAN skip this and not be too horribly confused.  
> If you don't want to read non-graphic descriptions of people getting it on, feel free to skip this one. I will not judge.

For a long time Rosso lay awake, replaying things in her head. It wasn’t truly her fault. The demon thing had been way more powerful than the reports had suggested, and how was she to have known the guy in the sweatshirt had been General Sephiroth? He truly was as strong- if not stronger- than she’d been led to believe. She didn’t mind losing to him so much. EVERYONE lost to Sephiroth, even _Weiss_ might lose to him. What she truly hated was that Nero had been hurt because of her failure. With a sigh, she resettled, snuggling into the pile of bedding. None of them slept in their own rooms. Weiss’ room had the most floor space, and so they all slept there, curled together in a mound of pillows and blankets.

She might not feel pain, but she could feel hot and cold, and even with a long-sleeved shirt it was chilly in Weiss’ room. He was always too hot; never bothered to wear a shirt. Shrugging up against him let her know that he was still awake too, either that or dreaming. She could feel him digging into her thigh slightly.

“Rosso…” he began quietly, apparently afraid to wake Nero, black hair still wet from the makou pool, who was curled up on his other side. “...would you mind?”

Inwardly, she sighed. She didn’t see why mating with the Mothers wasn’t enough. Maybe he just had bad timing? Well, he’d listened to her whining about losing to Sephiroth earlier. It was only fair.

“Oh all right,” she told him, lifting her hips enough to push her pants down. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” The word was slightly breathless, and he pushed into her at once. Rosso grunted at the force with which he did this. It didn’t hurt of course, but he seemed especially eager tonight. Maybe he didn’t have enough room? Shifting, she tucked her knees under her so that she was on all fours. Carefully guiding Nero’s head off his shoulder and onto one of the pillows, Weiss crawled over and repositioned himself.

“That’s better,” he huffed, now able to thrust deeper than he had been when she was on her side. Rosso inhaled sharply.

“...you okay?” he asked, abruptly stopping.

“Yes,” she gasped, trying to hold onto the feeling that had just shot through her. “Keep going.”

His hands on her hips were not ungentle, though his strokes were hard and urgent. He leaned forward a bit and she couldn’t help gasping a little at that.

“...Rosso?”

It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I’m fine,” she panted. “That...that felt _good…_ ”

“Really?” he seemed skeptical. “I thought you couldn’t feel things like that?”

“Not on my skin, no, but you’re not touching my skin are you?”

Weiss grinned. “Not with my dick.”

Rolling her eyes, Rosso shook her head. Boys.

“So you like that, huh?” he asked, rolling his hips She had to bury her face in a pillow to stifle a moan. “You do… I can tell you do. That’s a first.” His words were soft, as were his movements. Paying more attention to what he was doing, he went slower, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. Although it barely registered, she felt the warmth of his hand sliding up and down her thigh. The heat was comforting even if the sensation of his skin against hers was muted. Rosso grit her teeth as he slid out.

“Don’t stop!” she protested.

“Shh… Nero,” he reminded her. “I’m not done, I just wanna see something…”

One hand braced on her hip, he reached inside her with a finger. “Right there?”

The only reply she could manage was an indrawn breath so sharp it squeaked. Biting down on the pillow, she tried not to make any more noise but failed miserably. 

“Wow, you really _do_ like that,” he observed. “You’ve never been this excited before. Not for me, anyway.”

Rosso rolled her eyes, wishing he’d get on with it. He knew perfectly well she’d never had sex with anyone else. There was no point. She couldn’t have children, and she didn’t get much out of it since she could barely feel anything. Except for now. Which was a bit of a shock.

“Yes, well, you’re killing the mood. Hurry up!” she hissed, unwilling to let him know that she wanted it so badly it physically hurt. It _hurt!_ Nothing had ever hurt her before. Weiss chuckled.

“Okay, okay, gimme a minute.” Withdrawing his hand, he rubbed himself against her, making her gasp and shudder.

“ _Weiss…! ___” she whined, wishing he’d get on with it.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, finally sliding in. Rosso allowed herself a small groan of relief. Unable to wait for him, she leaned back to meet him. He seemed surprised by this, for his rhythm faltered. Questioning, she looked back at him over her shoulder.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted, the look on his face strangely shy. Weiss was never shy, not about anything. “Only had it happen once or twice with the Mothers. I wasn’t sure…” he trailed off awkwardly, heat staining his cheeks pink.

Rosso nodded, connecting the dots herself. “You didn’t know what it was. You didn’t know that meant they liked it.”

“The others, though…” He’d stopped moving inside her, the blush gone from his fair skin to be replaced by a look of doubt.

“Doesn’t mean they didn’t like it _at all_ , just not as much,” Rosso assured him. “You didn’t find their spot, that’s all. Now you know what to look for next time.”

“Yeah,” he nodded in agreement, and returned to the task at hand. Rosso allowed herself a purr of contentment, arching her back like a cat.

“Mmm… Down a little,” she told him, unable to shift enough herself.

“Like this?” he tilted his hips forward and Rosso clamped the pillow to her face, unable to stop the moan of pleasure that came from somewhere farther down than her vocal cords. A second groan rose low and muffled, but it wasn’t hers. Lifting her face out of the pillow, she noticed Nero sitting up and watching them.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“How long have you been up?” Weiss asked, not breaking stride.

Nero shrugged, his grayish skin staining a darker shade behind his mask. “I was never asleep. I just… I heard what you said and I wanted to see.”

“See what?” Weiss asked him. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“No,” Nero shook his head, “I mean I wanted to see if it was true about Rosso. That she could feel it. That it felt nice.”

Breathing hard, savouring the feeling, Rosso only spared enough concentration to reply: “It does… It does feel nice…”

Nero’s cheekbones lifted in a smile. “Good.”

Rosso smiled for him and buried her face in the pillow again as Weiss shifted inside her, resulting in a highly undignified squeak. She hadn’t thought her own voice could reach that high. Now that’d he’d discovered her weakness, true to form, Weiss pressed his advantage. Normally he’d do what he needed to without comment, thank her, and then go to sleep. Perhaps because she couldn’t stop the pretty noises that kept escaping her throat, Weiss felt the need to make some sort of wordless reply. She could feel his chest rumbling with deep, contented noise bare inches from her back, almost as if he were purring.

“Don’t muffle it,” he said lowly, his lips so near to her ear that she could feel his hot breath. “I want to hear what you sound like happy.”

“I am happy,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“Then why are you crying?” That was Nero, who had a view of her face that Weiss did not.

“Crying?” Weiss echoed and tried to lean around to see her face.

“I’m fine!” she protested. “Don’t stop!”

“Are you _sure_ I’m not hurting you?”

“You _can’t_ hurt me! Now get on with it!”

“Yeah, but only from the outside.”

“Weiss _please_ ,” she whimpered. “You know if I didn’t want this I’d tell you to fuck off.”

He had to admit this was true. “Yeah but...you crying? You never cry.”

“I’m not sad,” she insisted. “Not at all. I just… I’ve never had it happen like this and…and I don’t know what to do…”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Weiss assured her. Nero was eyeing them appraisingly.

“Turn her around so you can see her face,” he said as if this were perfectly obvious.

“Oh. Right.”

Rosso blushed scarlet, horrified at the disappointed noise that left her throat as Weiss pulled away.

“Shh,” he soothed, shoving a couple of pillows behind her back and head so she wasn’t completely flat on the floor. Lowering himself over her, he leaned close, weight on his knees and elbows, and pressed his cheek against hers. His skin prickled with heat, throwing an aura of warmth that could be felt before his skin had touched hers. For a moment he just lay there, catching his breath, before unexpectedly slipping back inside her. She gasped at that, her hips rolling forward of their own accord. The expression this brought to Weiss’ face almost made her laugh.

“You like it too, huh?”

“I always like it,” he panted, though not with exertion. “Admittedly, not usually as much as this.”

He let her have it then, angling a bit until he found her sweet spot again and then shoving hard. Without the pillow, Rosso clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle a shriek. This was nice, she liked being able to look at him, but having to almost lie on top of her like this made it harder for him to hit the spot that had triggered the shriek in the first place. Off to her left, Nero sighed wistfully.

“I wish I could have sex…”

Because of his shadows, Nero was deemed too dangerous for the breeding program. He, herself, and the other female SOLDIERS were the only exemptions. Fertile women carried babies; sterile women carried a gun. Sparing him a glance, she noted that he was sitting cross-legged, both hands pushed down into his lap.

“Gimme a minute,” Weiss grunted. “Let me finish with Rosso and then I’ll help you.”

The younger boy’s cheeks flushed nearly black behind his mask as he ducked his head, suddenly shy. “No rush…”

Personally, Rosso felt there was every reason to rush. Something inside her wanted more than Weiss was providing at the moment. Seizing him by the shoulders, she shoved him back and over, as if they were wrestling, forcing him down onto the blankets. Surprise flashed across his face, followed closely by confusion, until her full weight settled across his hips and it was his turn to gasp.

“Oh…” was all he managed, having figured out what she was up to.

Rosso rolled her hips against him, making him hiss through teeth gritted in a smile. She shifted a bit trying to… _there!_ The feeling arced up her spine like electricity, producing a note reminiscent of a star soprano completing an aria. Both boys looked at her stupidly for a moment before she rocked forward, Weiss’ hands braced on her hips, her hands on his forearms. She almost felt sorry for the mothers. He was hot enough to burn inside her, but she felt no pain, only his heat against that magic spot he’d discovered. Not bothering to stifle herself, she ground her hips into his. Weiss grinned his feral grin and shoved back, lifting her off the floor and bringing tears to her eyes. It was like their old games of push-me-pull-you, each trying to overbalance the other, except this time it had become a race. She could feel him getting close, so close, she was sure he’d beat her but…

She inhaled sharply, an inverted scream, cold air sucked down to quench the fire inside. The deepest part of her trembled, her foundations shaken. Weiss’ heat flared inside her and for a moment she balanced, still and silent, before collapsing forward, barely able to breathe. Weiss caught her as she fell, his thick arms fencing her in on either side lest she fall off him. It was strange. She should feel trapped, claustrophobic in such a grip, but she didn’t. Unthinking, she returned the gesture, snugging her arms around him as best she could with him lying on the floor. A wave of cold swept over her and she opened her eyes to see Nero had joined their pile.

“You still need help?” Weiss asked, sounding pleasantly exhausted. Uncoiling one arm, he curled it around his brother much the way he still held onto Rosso with the other. Nero nuzzled closer to press his cheek and forehead against theirs.

“Nah,” he said, sounding ever so slightly embarrassed. “I’m good.”


	33. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are surrenders, compromises, and grown-ups using their words.  
> Mostly.

The logistics would have driven a lesser man into a nervous breakdown, but Lazard had fought beside him in Wutai. When one had faced down scores of angry natives, suffered through the rainy season, contaminated water, and jungle rot, only to lose a leg to shrapnel, a six inch stack of paperwork suddenly didn’t seem so insurmountable. Lazard was a good soldier and a good man, and Sephiroth felt guilty for doubting him, no matter how briefly.

“I trust you,” Lazard had told him before they’d shipped out. “I hope you know that you can trust me as well. I’d come with you if I could.”

“If this works, you won’t have to,” Sephiroth had assured him. Then the ship’s whistle had sounded and he’d had to count heads before they shoved off.

No more than a skeleton crew of raw recruits and a couple of crusty old veterans remained to staff the Shinra building. Sephiroth had taken the rest of them with him to Corel, ostensibly to make a show of force to Avalanche. There weren’t many SOLDIERs left, but he had pulled each and every one aside and spoken to them. To a man, they had all reacted the same as Zack: stunned, confused, and perhaps even a bit resentful, but they had not wavered in their loyalty. Every last one had insisted that programming had nothing to do with anything and pledged to follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond. Sephiroth could have kissed them.

Even with Lazard’s help from the inside, it was a risk. Scarlet would go to bat for him, Sephiroth knew, but she wasn’t directly head of the military and only had jurisdiction over the weapons they carried. Despite literally having the entire army behind him, in many ways he’d be standing alone against Shinra. With any luck Rufus would stand with him. Tseng and several of the Turks were already in Corel. Perhaps it was foolish, but he trusted Tseng. Considering he’d personally cut down many of the Turk’s countrymen, that was saying something. Indeed, it was Tseng who greeted them upon their arrival. Sephiroth went with him, leaving Zack and the other newly-promoted Colonels and Lieutenants to sort themselves out.

“General,” Tseng said with a short bow.

“Director,” Sephiroth replied, returning the gesture. “What have we got?”

“We’re monitoring the situation,” Tseng said evasively as they strode toward the largest building near the center of town. Corel was Old World in every possible sense. The cozy, two-storey brick and stone buildings dated from the first industrial revolution when coal had overtaken more organic means of power such as wood fire and water. Walking down the narrow cobbled streets made Sephiroth feel as if he were wandering through an illustration in a book, or perhaps the set of a movie. It was actually a bit jarring to see people walking around, going into and out of the antique houses, wearing contemporary dress and not the fashions of a hundred years ago. There seemed to be something significant going on in and around the town hall, and Tseng led him right through the thick of it. The crowd gathered around the front entrance was peaceful enough, but still noisy. From the fragments and snatches of conversation that made their way to his ears, everyone was waiting to hear what the town council would decide: coal or makou?

A couple of Turks he did not recognize were standing guard inside, one on either side of a simple wooden door. One was small, male and blond; the other was taller, dark-skinned, and female. Tseng knocked once and then admitted himself without waiting for an answer. Once inside, the room appeared to be for meetings or civic discussion. Although there was no table in the center as was the case with the Shinra board room, a ring of chairs lined the walls. Each seat was occupied by a local civil servant. Most of them appeared to hold office as a secondary function; each dressed appropriately for their given trade rather than in the suit and tie that Sephiroth had become familiar with. The vast majority of them were coal miners- probably foremen or supervisors of some type- with a few local tradesmen; butchers, bakers, postmen, and the like thrown in. Among them, his white suit standing out like the proverbial sore thumb, sat Vice President Rufus Shinra looking as out of place as Sephiroth felt.

“General Sephiroth,” Rufus sounded surprised. “I was not expecting you.”

The entire room turned to look at him. Reminding himself why he was here, Sephiroth nodded politely to the younger man.

“Excuse me,” he apologized. “Please continue.”

“Actually, we were just about to take a break,” Rufus replied. “Gentleman, if you will excuse me?”

The various members of the town council nodded politely as Rufus exited, Sephiroth and Tseng following in his wake.

“Okay, what did I do now?” the Vice President asked once the door had closed behind them.

“Sir?” Sephiroth blinked.

“My Old Man wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think I was going to royally screw this up.”

“I’m here because of Avalanche,” Sephiroth told him. “Or is that strictly rumor?”

Rufus looked to Tseng.

“Reports are still coming in, but Avalanche is most definitely assembling in the surrounding foothills,” Tseng said, consulting a datapad. “We believe they mean to strike in force. Their suspected goal is to prevent negotiations from going through, and perhaps to kidnap you if possible.”

“Beautiful,” Rufus grumbled, rubbing his face with one hand. “I think just about everyone is willing to go along with it. Dad had some fabulous compensation included in the agreement for when they stop exporting coal. Only thing is, there’s a handful of die-hards who just won’t listen to reason. Oddly enough, not all of them are even miners.”

“ _Everyone_ here is miner,” Tseng commented. “These people have anthracite in their very blood. If they aren’t miners themselves, they’ve got at least a dozen in the family somewhere.”

“True. See, this is why you run the Turks,” Rufus said ruefully. Tseng smiled.

“So you’re here to keep Avalanche off my back and maybe inspire the locals to cooperate?”

Sephiroth exchanged a glance with Tseng who nodded.

“Yes and no, Mr. Vice President.” If Tseng was behind him on this, then the rest of the Turks would be too. The army, all the SOLDIERs, and the Turks as well. If he could get Rufus to stand beside him, he’d nearly have Shinra itself. Nearly. There would still be the current president to deal with.

“We’ve come across some information that we feel may be pertinent to the situation,” Tseng said, handing Rufus the datapad. Taking it, Rufus looked at it and frowned.

“The heck?” he asked no one in particular, paging through its contents. Both Veld and Tseng had felt Rufus might benefit from seeing the SOLDIER files. It was unlikely he knew what his father had authorized before he’d even been born. What Rufus would make of it would remain to be seen. Tseng had confidence in him, but not knowing the young man quite as well, Sephiroth wasn’t so sure. “What is this?”

“I remember you lamenting that your father used money to get what he wanted, and that you planned to run things differently. Command through fear is a quick way to find yourself with a mutiny on your hands.”

Rufus looked to Sephiroth, who nodded. “He’s right. There’s a difference between respect and fear, Mr. Vice President. Only the raw recruits are afraid of me. The rest I know I can trust because they trust me.” There was an awkward pause as he searched for words and the brass with which to say them. Shinra had trained him too well. “What I want to know, Mr. Vice President, is can I trust _you?_ ”

Rufus looked as if he could have been knocked over with a feather. More for time to think than a desire to further peruse the files, he looked down at the datapad again.

“I need to look at this more closely,” Rufus began. “But...you can trust me. You can. And for godsake just call me ‘Rufus’, both of you. We all know the ‘Vice President’ thing is just because I’m the boss’s son. I’d never have this job if I was just some corporate grunt.”

“I don’t believe that, Sir,” Tseng said loyally. Sephiroth struggled against a smile.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to call you something different in the near future?”

Rufus just looked at him, head tilted to one side quizzically. “...are you?” he began, but Tseng had grabbed his elbow, shoving him toward a room at the opposite side of the hall. Rufus looked mildly alarmed as the door shut behind him.

“Okay, if I didn’t know better, I’d think _you two_ were trying to kidnap me, or hold me hostage or something,” he commented, not entirely joking. “The hell’s going on here?”

“If I may...Rufus…” the name felt strange on his tongue.

“Yes?”

“I do not believe that Corel needs a reactor.”

The boy looked up, dumbfounded. “Say what?”

“Corel does not need a reactor,” Sephiroth repeated. “Building one here won’t do much more than make a political statement. It won’t even bring the company more money. At this point it’s just a power grab, a way to prove a point. There are only a handful of places left in the world without a makou reactor and Corel is one of them.”

Rufus thought about that for a moment. “Nothing was ever straight-forward with that old man,” he muttered.

“What would you do?” Tseng asked him. Rufus chewed his lip.

“If we were actually improving quality of life here that would be one thing, but…” Plunking down onto a nearby sofa, Rufus clutched the datapad, brown furrowed in thought. “Dad sent me out here to convince them, whatever it took. He didn’t care if that meant talking them around, or burning the place down. Either build a reactor, or send a message. I know about the plan to wire the mine shafts,” he said, looking pointedly at Tseng. The Turk simply shrugged.

“Given that this is a mining town, I felt it imprudent to carry out that particular order. There are better ways to send a message than burning down an entire community. Furthermore, there are still many veins of coal quite near to the surface. The entire mountain would catch fire, and no one would benefit from that.”

“That’s dad, alright,” Rufus sighed, though whether in relief or resignation was unclear. “If you didn’t plant the explosives, what _did_ you do with them?”

“They’re in a secure location, far away from anything flammable.”

“Good,” Rufus nodded, “keep ‘em that way.”

“Sir,” Tseng nodded, smiling.

Rufus had gone back to paging through the files, a look of deep concentration on his face. After a minute, he began slowly shaking his head.

“Okay. I believe you, but what do you want me to do about this?” he asked, looking up at the Turk and the General. And then the gil dropped.

“I believe the technical term is ‘hostile takeover’,” Sephiroth said, voicing the realization that had just blossomed in Rufus’ mind. “I cannot follow a man I don’t trust. Forgive me, but I do not trust your father. At all.”

“And you think you can trust me?” Rufus asked. The hope in the young man’s voice hurt. It could not be easy having President Shinra for a father. Not all families, it seemed, were happy.

“I hope so,” Sephiroth told him honestly.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Cloud had stuck his head into the room. Both the General and the Vice president looked up.

“Yes?” they answered at once.

“General,” Cloud amended, earning an annoyed look from Rufus. “We have a situation.”

“What is it?”

“Avalanche.”

Sephiroth was out of his seat and across the room at once, adjusting the straps that held Masamune in place as he went. Rufus moved to follow him, but Sephiroth held up one hand.

“No. You stay here. If you want to inherit the company some day you need to be alive to do so.”

“But I could talk to them!” Rufus protested.

“Sir,” Sephiroth said, doing his best to put more than just formality into the title, “stay here.”

Reluctantly, Rufus sank back into his seat. “Alright,” he grumbled, knowing Sephiroth was right but hating to admit it. “Tell them the reactor’s off. Tell them we… Tell them _I_ want to discuss cessation of hostilities. I mean, if there’s no reactor, there’s no reason for them to be here. Nobody else needs to get bombed by them or Shinra. Tell them I want to work something out.”

Sephiroth couldn’t help the smile pulling at one side of his face. “I’ll let them know.” Rufus wasn’t much older than Cloud, but both of them had a lot of potential. They just needed time to develop it. However, it was unlikely either of them would get that time. There were eco-terrorists on their doorstep and he had a village to protect. They’d only get one shot and he dare not mess it up.

Zack had acted well in his absence. The infantry had herded all the citizens back into their homes, only the town council remained outside and at the absolute back of the barrier of SOLDIERs Zack had put between Corel and Avalanche. The men parted ranks for him automatically, making way for him as he strode to the front line. Zack was there with the other Firsts, Buster sword as yet undrawn, but hands clenched at his sides, itching to hold it.

“Sir,” Zack greeted him with a salute. Sephiroth returned it without looking at him, the opposing forces taking up all his attention. Avalanche had been a thorn in Shinra’s side for a few years now; either destroying or preventing the construction of new reactors and corporate offices. No doubt they had intended to foil any negotiations concerning a reactor to be built in Corel.

Were they ever in for a surprise.

“I see our reputation precedes us.” This had to be their leader. A trim woman with short brown hair dressed in a green uniform had stepped forward. A white cloak was thrown over her shoulders and in her right hand she carried a long sword. Not even half the length of Masamune, the weapon still struck him as out-sized for her height and build.

“Not only does Shinra send SOLDIERs to meet us, they send their star warrior, the illustrious General Sephiroth.”

The title intended to tease, although she could not be aware how much he truly disliked it. Sephiroth heard leather creak as his hands balled into fists at his sides.

 _We’re on the same side,_ he reminded himself. _She just doesn’t know it yet._

Right. Courtesy. Diplomacy. He could handle this.

“Madam,” he began, offering her the same half-bow he had given Tseng. They were both Generals, equals. They might be opponents, but that did not mean he should not accord her the respect she deserved. “We are not here to fight you.”

Behind him, the troops shifted, but remained silent.

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage,” he continued. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

She just stared at him for a minute, confusion plain on her face. At her elbow, a man with untidy hair and small, round glasses whispered something in her ear. She gave him the side-eye and then waved him off.

“My name is Elfe,” she told him. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Why else would Shinra send its greatest weapon?”

“You’re right in saying Shinra sent me, but that’s not--”

“Enough!” she cried, throwing back her cloak and raising her sword. “Either stand and fight or get out of our way!”

“There is no reason to fight,” he told her. “There will be no reactor built here today or any other day.”

That threw her. “What are you talking about?”

“The village council has decided they do not want or need makou power.”

“And Shinra sent you to change their minds by force.”

“That was the original idea, yes. However, a SOLDIER has the right to refuse orders.”

“Refuse orders?” she echoed, thoroughly lost.

“Yes. I came to Corel on Shinra’s orders, but I am not about to level an entire town just to make a point.”

“I don’t believe you!” she snarled, striding forward. “Face me!”

“Madam, I have no wish to fight you,” he repeated, again offering her the half-bow.

“Do not mock me!” she cried. “Face me and prove to everyone that you’re lying!”

“I am not lying.”

“I don’t believe you!” Lunging, she brought her sword down as if to cleave his skull. He blocked the stroke easily, but blinked at the shiver it sent up his arm. She was strong for her size. Unusually strong. _Unnaturally_ strong.

“Damn…” Zack muttered, apparently having drawn a similar conclusion.

Pushing back, Sephiroth threw her off. She danced back with the momentum as if she’d intended it that way all along. She came at him again, from a different angle this time. Although he deflected her blade easily, he got the feeling she was only testing him. Again and again she struck, forcing him to circle back so that his back was to her army, and hers to his.

“Why won’t you fight me?!” she demanding, swiping at him. _That_ one had real force behind it, and he almost didn’t catch it in time. It reminded him a little bit of the mock-battles with Angeal and Genesis...

“Because,” he snarled, losing patience and pressing his own attack, punctuating each word with a stroke from Masamune, “we’re on. The. Same. Side!”

Her sword arm fell. “Excuse me?”

“The Vice President would like to discuss terms for cessation of hostilities,” he told her, stepping to one side and sheathing Masamune. “We are not here to occupy the village for Shinra, but to repel any additional forces Shinra may send.” And who they might send he could not imagine. There was literally no one left.

Elfe just stared.

“I’d had enough,” he said with a shrug. “They can find themselves another monster to do their dirty work.”

For a long moment she just stood there, dumbstruck. Shaking herself, she recovered enough to glance back at the young man with the glasses who looked equally stunned. With a mental slap of his own, he returned to the present and frowned, shaking his head. Evidently, he had not believed a word of Sephiroth’s speech.

“I would like to speak to the village council myself.”

Sephiroth nodded and signaled to Zack. “Of course.”

“Company _DISMISSED!_ ” Zack shouted back at the troops. As the soldiers began to disperse, Zack came up to stand at his elbow.

“My second-in-command, Colonel Fair,” Sephiroth said by way of introduction.

“Fuhito and Shears,” she said, nodding at each of the men who had come to stand on either side of her. “The council?”

“This way.”

 

\--

 

The council plus Rufus and a few Turks sat waiting inside the town hall where they’d left them. Rufus, now that he had General Sephiroth and ninety per cent of the military behind him, was attempting a fresh round of negotiations- this time regarding coal and diamonds. Everyone seemed considerably less agitated than they had been about the reactor.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sephiroth interrupted. “Miss…” he realized he had not asked for her surname.

She shook her head. “Just Elfe. I’m here to speak to the Vice…” she trailed off, expression freezing into a picture of perfect shock. Sephiroth followed her gaze and found it resting on Veld. Sephiroth blinked himself, having not expected to see him here. The old Turk rose from his seat, his own features perfectly matching Elfe’s.

“Good gods,” he breathed. “...Felicia?”

Elfe’s expression cracked and crumbled, her eyes welling up. “...Daddy?”

She wavered where she stood and then abruptly collapsed. Although her associates reached to catch her, Sephiroth was faster, intercepting her before her head could connect with the floorboards.

“Felicia!” Veld was already on his knees at her side, pulling her out of Sephiroth’s arms and into his own. “Oh sweetheart… Wake up, honey, wake up.”

Gently, he patted her cheeks, smoothed her hair. After a moment, pain crossed her face and she blinked herself awake. Veld breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“There you are,” he smiled.

“Daddy…” Throwing her arms around his neck, Elfe buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Veld mumbled into her hair, holding her close. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I looked all over for you, I promise I did… I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

“Oh daddy,” Elfe sobbed, clinging to him as if terrified she’d be torn away.

“Shh…” Veld soothed, stroking her hair. “It’s alright now. It’ll be alright. I’ll never lose you again. Never.”

Sephiroth exchanged a decidedly awkward glance with Elfe’s- Felicia’s- associates. All they could offer him were matching sets of helpless shrugs. Apparently they’d had no idea the former head of the Turks had a daughter. Zack, much more adept at these things than Sephiroth was himself, was already herding the council members into another room.

“C’mon guys, let’s give them a minute, yeah?”

“Of course,” Sephiroth agreed and followed the others out.

\--

“Well that’s a plot-twist I didn’t see coming,” Zack remarked once everyone had been relocated. Rufus and the council were hashing out the remaining details in another room, and Fuhito and Shears had wandered back to their own men. Zack had sent them with one of the other Firsts and a couple of Turks for diplomatic purposes. “Did you know Veld had a kid?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “I didn’t even know who he was a few months ago, let alone anything about his family. Vincent probably knew, but it didn’t occur to me to ask him.”

“Ask me what?” Vincent- as what his habit- had materialized at Sephiroth’s side seemingly out of thin air. Zack still jumped slightly every time he did it.

“You need to stop that,” the dark-haired boy told him. Vincent just shrugged. He didn’t look like himself without the long red cloak. However, he wore the Turk suit of deep navy blue with the same easy dignity as Veld, and having his hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at least meant his face was mostly visible. However, the prosthetic hand poking out of his blazer sleeve was somewhat less obvious than Sephiroth remembered. He’d have to ask him about it later.

“Ask me what?” he repeated.

“Veld,” Sephiroth supplied. “I had no idea he had a family. Also, what are you two doing here?”

“Four,” Vincent corrected. “We brought the girls with us. Figured we could work on our other problem. We came because Veld’s been tracking Felicia ever since…” He trailed off into silence for a moment. Sephiroth could almost see him sifting through the information, deciding what was fit to share and what would be better kept a secret.

“There was an incident at Kalm about a year prior to Nibelheim.”

“Your Nibelheim or our Nibelheim?” Zack asked.

“His,” Sephiroth told him, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Just wanna make sure I have it straight,” Zack shrugged.

“Go on,” Sephiroth prompted Vincent.

“There was an incident in Kalm,” he repeated. “I won’t talk about it here. You’ve got clearance, you can look it up if you want. Veld’s family lived there; so did he when he wasn’t on duty. But there was a fire. The entire town went up. Veld lost his arm. Linda- Veld’s wife- was killed, and his daughter Felicia was never found. There were survivors but she was not among them.”

“Damn,” Zack muttered. “How old was she?”

“Felicia?” Vincent squinted up at the sky. “Two? Maybe three? She had an early birthday. February, I think.”

“How could she possibly remember him?” Zack wanted to know. “I mean yeah, he’s her dad, but she was still a baby then. He’s an old man now. How could she even recognize him?”

Vincent shrugged. “He still looks like himself. Yes he’s older, grayer, but if you could see a photograph of him from back then, you’d be able to tell right away that he hasn’t changed all that much.”

Zack nodded thoughtfully, rolling this over in his mind. “You think she’ll step down?”

“Step down?” Sephiroth echoed. “You mean from Avalanche?”

“Yeah, she’s found her dad. I can’t see Veld teaming up with a bunch of eco-terrorists.”

“Technically, that’s exactly what we’ve done,” Sephiroth reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is all just so weird.”

Shaking his head, Sephiroth just smiled.

“You know,” Vincent remarked, “technically we haven’t defected. We’re still with Shinra, just the younger one. Who hopefully has more sense than his predecessors.”

“That’s right, you’d have known grandpa Shinra,” Zack said as realization dawned.

Vincent nodded. “Yes, I knew Amon Shinra, and Fin when he was younger and about half the size he is now.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all age as gracefully as you.”

Amazingly, Vincent laughed. The sound still made Sephiroth cringe, but not as badly as before.

“Anyway, now what?” Zack asked. “We can’t do anything else until Veld’s little family reunion is over.”

“I’d talk to the professor,” Vincent said, nodding across the square at Fuhito. “He looks like the second-in-command. If he isn’t, he’s definitely the one pulling the strings. I know his type.”

Sephiroth did not doubt that he did. Fuhito was vaguely reminiscent of Hojo in all the ways that made Sephiroth want to hit things. However, he had yet to talk to the man. It wasn’t fair to judge someone before hearing what he had to say.


	34. Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shinra and Avalanche may all be on the same side, but that doesn't mean they see eye-to-eye.

It had not been a dream after all; unless of course she was still dreaming, which was entirely possible. It didn’t _feel_ like a dream, but the weathered, familiar face looking anxiously down at her couldn’t possibly be real.

“Felicia?” it asked. It was a name she had not heard in a long, long time.

“Hi daddy,” she smiled, and stretched to hug him. She had been very young when he’d disappeared, little more than a baby, but she remembered. Zircon had helped preserve his face in her infant mind, and she had not forgotten.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, hugging her in return. His surprisingly strong arms felt a little shaky, as if there was more going on beneath the surface. Perhaps it was just his way. She remembered, distantly, that her father had worn a dark blue suit when he went back to Midgar to his job at Shinra. She had not put two and two together until much later: her father had been a Turk. Was a Turk still, if the the dark coat and trousers, white shirt, and black tie were anything to go by.

He helped her up, guided her over to one of the many chairs set about the perimeter of the room. For a moment they just looked at one another. There were questions, so many questions burning on Elfe’s tongue, but only one of them truly mattered:

“What took you so long?”

Her father looked away as if she’d struck him. It took him a moment to collect himself, to look her in the eye. His eyes were blue, just as hers were. Her mother’s eyes had been brown.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” he began, voice rougher than she remembered. He still smelled faintly of tobacco. He must still smoke. “I looked for you, I swear I did. It was such a nightmare after the accident. I looked into that too. It actually _was_ an accident. Friendly fire. Hell of a way to go.” He shook his head, but Elfe could not tell if the gesture was done in grief or to shake off bitter memories. “It wasn’t easy keeping track of so many wounded. Shinra never formally sent me your mama’s death certificate until a good ten years after the fact. They insisted they’d never found you, that you must have died at the scene, but I didn’t believe that. I looked, darling, honest I did. I never stopped looking. That’s what brought me here. When I saw your face in among the other members of Avalanche, I knew I was right to keep searching.” He smiled fondly, sadly. “You always were good at hide-and-seek.”

She couldn’t help smiling at that. “When did you see my picture?”

“The Junon incident. Caught you and a couple of others on security footage.” He reached and smoothed her too-long bangs from her face. “You look just like your mother.”

It was funny how her father’s face- a younger version of the one across from her- had been etched into her memory. He had been her method of rescue, her link to the outside world. Her mother’s, in contrast, wasn’t much more than the warm, hazy impressions of a very little girl. Although her mother had spent more time with her, had come with her to the hospital after the town had caught fire, her features were nowhere near as defined in her memory. Despite this, Elfe smiled. She didn’t mind looking like her mother, whom she had loved, but she thought she looked a little like the man sitting across from her too; like her father.

“So you tracked me here.”

Her father nodded. “Yeah.”

“Now what?”

“I just… I just wanted to see that you were alive. That you were okay.”

“And you don’t want me to drop the eco-terrorist thing?”

That caught him up short, but the moment was brief. Amazingly, he shrugged. “Well, I think we both know burning it with fire never solves much.”

Elfe couldn’t quite repress a shiver at that.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, because you’re not.”

She blinked at this.

“I think you’re right in that makou reactors are doing more harm than good, but I’m not sure blowing shit up is the answer. Maybe it was with Finn. Gods know he’s got a hard head and won’t listen if it’s something he doesn’t want to hear, but Rufus is different. He’s a good kid. I think maybe you and he could work something out.”

“And if we can’t?”

Her father shrugged. “Then I’ll come with you.”

“You’ll-- _What?!_ ” Elfe gaped. For some reason, she had not been expecting that.

“I’ll come with you,” her father repeated calmly. “I’m not losing you again. I cut ties with Shinra years ago, I don’t owe them anything. One way or another, I’m coming with you.”

 _Whether you like it or not,_ trailed unspoken after the period. Elfe couldn’t help smiling.

“Then let me introduce you to my officers.”

\--

 

With Zirconiade in the background for now, Elfe shook off her father’s attempts to take her arm.

“I’m fine,” she told him flatly. “Really. I’m okay.”

He didn’t look as if he believed her, but followed her over to where Avalanche had established its own quarters. Perhaps because of their reputation, most of them had erected tents or found temporary housing inside a cluster of empty coal sheds. It was toward one of these she headed. General Sephiroth and a couple of spiky-haired men- one taller and brunette, the other shorter and blonde- were standing outside it, talking to Shears and Fuhito.

“Believe it or not, we don’t want any trouble,” General Sephiroth said, visibly holding his temper. “We’re on the same side in this.”

“I beg to differ,” Fuhito shot back. “You’re still under the employ of Shinra, simply the younger and not the elder. Forgive me if I don’t see how this has changed anything.”

“Rufus shut down the plans for the reactor,” the dark-haired man put in. “He wants to work with you on this.”

Fuhito scowled and opened his mouth to retort, but Elfe went over and laid a hand on his arm.

“I’d like to discuss things further with both President Rufus and yourself,” she said, looking up at General Sephiroth. “Can I trust your troops not to provoke mine?”

He nodded, silver-white bangs swaying with the motion. “None of my men will bother yours. May we expect equal consideration?”

“You may.”

“Very well,” he said offering her another formal Wutaian-style bow. “I believe President Rufus would like to begin deliberations first thing tomorrow, if that suits you.”

Elfe nodded in return, the gesture much shorter and sharper. He didn’t need to fawn over her with such chivalric nonsense. “I’ll be there.”

There wasn’t much else to be said, so the General nodded at her father and greeted him with a simple “Veld,” before turning and walking away. After a moment, each of the spiky-haired men saluted her and followed after him. Too weird.

“I don’t trust him,” Fuhito grumbled sullenly. “And who, pray tell is this?”

Veld met Fuhito’s disapproving stare as only an overprotective father could do and Elfe had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as Fuhito swallowed nervously.

“Fuhito, Shears, this is my father.”

“Mr. Verdot to you,” he said, eyeing the younger men.

Shears, who frequently seemed to have more sense despite having less formal education than Fuhito, saluted and offered a bewildered “Sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Fuhito said rather blankly, pushing up his glasses.

“He’s with us,” Elfe told them when neither moved to allow him through to the coal shed they’d requisitioned for the time being. “You will consider him a civilian ally and accord him the same respect you do me. Understood?”

“Ma’am,” Shears said with another salute.

“You can’t be serious!” Fuhito protested. “He’s a Turk!”

“Former Turk,” Veld corrected. “I’m retired.”

“I was given to understand that Turks do not retire.”

Veld just smiled making Fuhito swallow again. Elfe fought back a giggle. Clearing her throat, she scowled at them until both men moved aside. Leading the way, Elfe led them into the dim and slightly sooty interior. It wasn’t too bad. This particular shed had house an office, the battered wooden desks and chairs still standing in place.

“Shears, how are the troops?”

“Confused as hell, and kinda jumpy. We’re all just civilian soldiers, not the real thing. Looks like General Sephiroth brought the whole damn army with him.”

“He did,” Veld added calmly. “He defected from one Shinra to the other. There’s nothing left for corporate to throw at either of us.”

“Good to know,” Elfe nodded thoughtfully.

“And what’s to stop him from stamping us into a bloody pulp? People haven’t forgotten about Wutai, you know,” Fuhito argued. “Sephiroth won his stars by piling up the corpses of my people!”

“You’re not even a quarter Wute,” Shears put in, sounding bored. “You didn’t give a damn until five minutes ago.”

“I object to that!” Fuhito said crossly. “My point is, he’s more likely to attack now while we’re an easy target. I still think we ought to pull out and disperse, head for cover in the open country!”

“If he was gonna wipe us off the face of the earth, he’d a’ done it back when he and the Commander were fightin’.”

Fuhito opened his mouth to argue, but Veld had seized each man by the nape of the neck and clonked their heads together.

“Enough,” he said sternly. Elfe allowed herself a sardonic smile.

“That’s my line.”

Veld shrugged and gestured that the floor was hers.

“He’s right, enough,” she began. “I’m sick of listening to the two of you bicker. I trust Shinra in general or Sephiroth in particular about as far as I can throw them, but that means I _do_ have to trust them at least a little bit.”

“Trust them to stab us in the back,” Fuhito grumbled. Elfe silenced him with a look.

“The idea is not to wipe Shinra off the planet. The idea is to stop the gratuitous use of makou as a power source. We want to shut down makou reactors, and we achieved that today without blowing anything up or anyone getting killed. I count that a success. If Rufus Shinra is willing to meet us halfway, I’m willing to give this a chance.”

“Not to agree with the professor, Ma’am, but I don’t like it neither,” Shears said flatly. “I get you about a treaty with Shinra. I do. But I’m not gonna sleep a wink tonight knowin’ General Sephiroth and a hundred-and-some SOLDIERs plus another thousand or so infantry are just across the street starin’ at us.”

“Noted. By all means, set up a watch. No one is to leave our designated perimeter. If anyone from the Shinra camp comes to say hello, do not engage. Bring them to me. We’ll sort it out using our words like civilized adults.”

 

\--

 

 _‘What do you think?’_ Elfe asked much later, after the watch had been set and she’d finally been able to lie down and rest. Zirconiade was awake and restless in the back of her mind. Ever since the duel with Sephiroth, her Guardian had become agitated.

 _‘He is the whelp of the Crisis,’_ Zircon replied with such venom that Elphe blinked. _‘He cannot be trusted. He may think he is setting the world to rights, atoning for his sins, but make no mistake, he is subject to his mother’s will.’_

 _’...you lost me,’_ Elfe replied, bewildered. _’Sephiroth doesn’t have a mother. He’s one of Shinra’s experiments. For all I know he was grown like some sort of exotic plant, or built like a robot. It’d explain a few things if he really was made of metal and not flesh and bone.’_

Zircon seemed amused at the notion. _’He is flesh and blood, just as you are, and born of a woman as well.’_

_’Okay...then what’s the problem?’_

Zircon did not reply immediately, searching as she was for the correct words. _’Ages ago, when the world was young and so was I, a creature fell from the skies. At first we thought it was a star. Stars will fall, you know, but this was not a star, it was a creature. She called herself Jenova, and named herself as one of us: a protector, a guardian, worthy of honor and adoration. The first people bowed low before her as they did us, and reverenced her, but she deceived us all. She did not seek to aid us in protecting the planet and its inhabitants. Instead she sought to suck it dry, to feast upon the souls of our people and us as well.’_

 _’Well that’s rude,’_ Elfe commented, not knowing what else to say.

 _’Indeed,’_ Zircon said dryly. _’Many of us blamed Chaos, for it was he who insisted she be allowed to stay, else we would have expelled her immediately. But he was deceived most of all, and indeed he was consumed first among us. After that, she struck our people with a plague and glutted herself upon their doom. We were able to contain her, but it was already too late. The planet had been weakened and so had we. We could not banish her back to the skies. For many ages she slept until the humans dug her up again.’_

_’And she relates to General Sephiroth...how?’_

_’He is of her blood.’_

_’How the hell does THAT work?’_

Zircon shrugged. _’I’ve honestly no idea. By rights he should not exist. Such a thing should not be done. He is an abomination, a blight upon this land. Instead of a queen the humans have made themselves a prince to reverence even as he slaughters them. I tell you again, he is a puppet. He exists only to do his mother’s bidding, and she has grown hungry these many centuries. Your war in Wutai was only an appetizer. She will not stop until she has sucked this planet dry.’_


	35. By Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are more negotiations and everyone at least tries to act like an adult.  
> Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 5,000 hits. OMG guys. Wow. Just wow. <3  
> I think this may call for art!  
> I will get back to you on that.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kind support, lovely comments, kudos, and general following along. Authors are nothing without readers, so thank you all. <3

It was a commander’s duty to be up first, to lead the way into any adventure, including a new day. Elfe sighed, listening to the birds though the sun had not yet risen. Early in the morning was the only part of the day she had time to herself. Even Zirconiade was quiet, as she often was after helping in battle. Elfe’s right hand ached, but she ignored it. The pain wasn’t so bad that she needed to bother about it yet. There were other things to think about: the upcoming negotiations with Rufus Shinra of all people, hashing out a further truce of sorts with General Sephiroth, making sure the troops didn’t get too jumpy, but she wouldn’t be able to think through each of those concerns until she’d addressed one in particular that loomed over all others- her father.

As a child she had hoped and dreamed he would come and carry her home like a prince to a princess in a story book. She had been sad and hurt then, and later angry as a teenager. Now... She was glad he was alive, that much was true. She was also curious as to what the hell he’d been doing the last twenty-odd years? Why had it taken him so long to find her? Perhaps, like herself, he had at last presumed her to be dead? But then he had told her he had never stopped looking. How did a Turk- the head of the Turks no less- manage to let one little girl evade him for so long? Okay, maybe she was still a little bit upset about that, but it wasn’t worth wasting energy on being angry. Letting her emotions get the better of her only agitated the still-healing wound around the materia shard in her hand, and she didn’t want to have to be treated again so soon. She could not afford to appear weak in front of what until very recently had been the enemy.

 

\--

 

“You’re awfully quiet,” her father observed, sitting down next to her. Elfe shrugged without looking up from her breakfast.

“It’s how I am,” she she replied. “I’m thinking, also eating.”

“That’s not what I mean. You took me showing up after twenty years with no contact really well.”

“What did you expect?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Did you think I’d start shouting? Punch you in the face?”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

Elfe smiled. “Daddy, I love you, but I don’t know you. For a long time I missed you, and I wondered why you didn’t come, but when I finally figured out who I belonged to, you’d been pronounced dead and I was well on my way to being an adult.”

He nodded slowly. Elfe went on.

“I was angry for a while, but I’m not anymore. If anything I’m confused as to how you’re still alive.”

He paused, took a sip of coffee, clearly trying to figure out how they’d managed to keep missing each other.

“I lost you when you were three,” he began. “You would have been six when I became head of the Turks. Believe me I used every resource I had. Most of them were even legal, but we couldn’t find you.”

“I would have been transferred to the orphanage by then,” Elfe supplied. “Before that, I was at the Old Midgar General Hospital.”

Veld blinked. “Wait, you mean Deepground?”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s what it came to be called. Shinra built their new corporate office right on top of it. Once New Midgar General was built, they closed it down.”

Veld had his doubts about that if what Vincent had told him about the red-headed woman was anything to go by. Tseng and Lazard were digging around in the company database as well as the old archives, but apparently Hojo wasn’t the only one to disappear sensitive information.

“Well that explains a few things,” he mused. “Everyone who was a victim of the bombing was under quarantine due to risk of infection. It lasted for years. Hell, I’m not sure it was ever lifted.”

“It wasn’t,” she confirmed. “Quarantine remained in place until Old Midgar General closed down. Those of us who had recovered enough were released back into the wild, as it were. I wasn’t the only kid there. They had trouble treating me, but they finally figured it out. Once we had healed enough, Shrina saw that we were taken care of. A couple of us were Fostered, but most of us were put in an orphanage, more of a group home, really. It wasn’t terrible, as such things go. The matrons were nice enough. We had food, clothes, toys, education, more than most kids in Midgar ever got. Once we were old enough, Shinra made sure we all had jobs too. Compensation, I guess.”

“Still doesn’t explain why I never found you,” Veld said, sounding annoyed, though the anger was directed at himself.

“Well, you remember I called myself ‘Elfe’ when I was little, and how many kids know their parents names when they’re that young? I didn’t discover my ties to you until much later. It wasn’t until after DNA testing became common that they were able to identify mom’s remains and by association, myself and you.”

Veld nodded. “Yeah, I finally got the notice years later. Fourteen to be exact.”

“There’s another question answered,” Elfe remarked. Veld tilted his head curiously.

“By that time I was working as part of building security,” she explained. “I was sent on assignment as a nerd-wrangler to Cosmo Canyon. Fuhito and a few others went there to study, I went with them to make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble and...we never came back. I would have been eighteen. He and I joined Avalanche later that same year.”

“So you defected. Which meant even though Shinra had identified you, they wouldn’t have been able to find you,” Veld finished. Elfe nodded.

“Avalanche and Shinra spent a lot of time spying on each other. I knew my last name, but I didn’t know who you were. Besides, everyone was still pretty taken up with Wutai until a couple of years ago. It wasn’t until we learned that someone new had been installed as head of the Turks that I saw your photo and put two and two together. By then it was too late. Everyone knows Turks don’t retire, they disappear.”

“By and large that’s true,” Veld agreed. “For all intents and purposes, I am dead. Tseng’s a good kid. Mentored him myself. He agreed to look the other way so long as I kept out of sight and out of trouble.”

“And so we kept missing each other,” Elfe concluded.

“Felicia, I’m sorry…”

“I know you are,” she said gently, waving the apology away. “But it doesn’t matter now. I grew up without you and it could have been worse. I didn’t have a problem with Shinra until much later; after I learned what makou power was doing to the Planet, to its people, and after I thought they’d killed you.”

For a long moment Veld was silent, contemplating the battered wood of the table. “I wouldn’t blame you for being angry.”

“Look daddy, it’s okay, really.”

He shook his head, smiling at her. “I’m amazed you even call me that.”

Elfe shrugged. “Well, that’s what you are. Unless you’d rather I call you something else? We’re strangers to each other, after all. I stopped being angry or even sad ages ago. Until yesterday, you were just a memory to me. Now you’re here, and I don’t see the point of getting angry again. We didn’t get to be together as father and daughter. Why not try to get to know each other as adults?”

Veld thought about this and then nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

 

\--

 

Shears and Fuhito were ready when she buckled her sword belt and headed across their camp toward the town hall. Her father came along as well, bringing up the rear while Shears and Fuhito walked a half-step behind her on either side. General Sephiroth was already there with his own entourage and several Turks who were placed strategically around the room. Vice-President- well, President, now- Rufus was chatting with a couple of men from the Corel town council. To her mild surprise, both President and General greeted her politely.

“Miss Verdot,” the President said with a smile. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

“It’s ‘Commander’, please,” she told him before moving to the offered seat. “I made Captain before branching out on my own.”

“Excuse me, Commander,” he said with a nod. Elfe returned it and sat down. She was immediately across from the General, his spiky-haired second and another man with with similar coloring but much smoother tresses pulled back in a loose ponytail sitting across from Fuhito and Shears. Why he was there, she was not entirely sure. He was not dressed in a military uniform, but a suit of Turk blue. About then he noticed her looking at him. On the point of turning away, Elfe’s eyes widened and she froze for a moment. The man stared back, eyes an eerie shade of blood red. He offered her a polite nod and then turned his attention elsewhere. Giving herself a mental slap, Elfe did the same.

 _Colored contacts,_ she told herself, annoyed. Turks employed all sorts of underhanded tricks to disarm and intimidate. She might trust her father, but that didn’t mean she trusted the rest of them.

“I appreciate everyone’s willingness to cooperate,” Rufus began. “I apologize for the earlier rudeness on the part of my own delegation. It won’t be happening again. I don’t agree with the way my father or the company presently does business. The Corel council and myself have already forged an agreement. What we’re here to discuss is how to proceed. I doubt my father will be too happy with me, and I don’t want to put the citizens at further risk. General Sephiroth, any suggestions?”

“If the citizens are agreeable, I suggest we stay here,” the general said, straight-faced. “Shinra hasn’t got much of an army left now that I, the remaining SOLDIERs, and most of the infantry are here. However, we have reason to believe Shinra’s resources have not been completely exhausted. If we pull out now, Corel may suffer. I would suggest at the very least leaving a detachment here to defend the town; preferably composed of both my troops and Commander Verdot’s.”

Elfe blinked, having not expected that. To her left, Fuhito seemed equally surprised. Farther down, Shears simply nodded.

“What they still got back in the broom closet?” he asked.

“Colonel Fair, Mr. Valentine, and myself encountered a Shinra operative who claimed to be from a branch we were not familiar with,” the General said, nodding to the two dark-haired men next to him. “I’ve spoken with sources that I trust and we have reason to believe that she is not the only soldier with such training.”

“So there’s more a’ you?”

Sephiroth, surprisingly, seemed slightly chagrinned at this remark, but shook his head. “She wasn’t a SOLDIER. If she was, I would have known. She’s something else; something different, but not far off.”

“Okay. But there’s more of her?”

Sephiroth nodded. “Probably. How many more, I don’t know and I’d rather not take a chance on finding out. I don’t want to leave Corel open to retaliation because of what we’ve done.”

“Mighty decent of you,” Shears remarked, an unmistakable note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Shears,” Elfe said sternly. Her subordinate flushed and shut his mouth with a snap. “I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with General Sephiroth. It would be wise to establish a camp here of both Shinra and Avalanche troops. However, before we agree to anything further, I’d like to know what your plans are for the Shinra Electric Power Company, Mr. President.”

Rufus blushed minutely. “Considering I’ve had roughly forty-eight hours to establish a new corporate policy, there are still quite a few details to hammer out,” he said politely, but with an unmistakable edge of exasperation. “I realize you’ll have many suggestions and I look forward to hearing them.”

That was more than she’d hoped for. “I realize makou power is your bread and butter, but it cannot continue. Any and all makou reactors must be shut down. I realize it’s not only impractical but impossible to deactivate them all today, but I need to know that you have steps in place for the eventual replacement of makou power.”

“I thought as much,” Rufus nodded. “I need to check with the research and development team in order to come up with a substitute. Indeed, I’d like to concentrate more on energy and less on military development from here on out. We do have a couple of leads on a much more efficient method of makou power that is far less draining to the Planet. I realize that’s not a permanent solution, but it’s the best I can do at the moment. No more reactors will be built, I can promise you that. Once things settle down, I plan to overhaul the remaining reactors and then focus on replacing them entirely with a more long-term solution.”

It sounded good, he even seemed as if he mean it. “I’d like that in writing. I’d also prefer a timetable with deadlines as to when you plan to accomplish all of this. You’re asking us to take an awful lot on faith, Mr. President.”

Rufus lowered his head and spread his hands. “Until my father steps down, or the rest of the company recognizes me as its new head, my power is limited. Believe me, I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt because of the bad decisions Shinra has made. If you promise not to blow anything else up, I promise not to be a douche. How does that sound.?”

A vague murmur of shock rippled around the room. Her father snorted, the General was coughing, apparently trying not to laugh. It was hardly the pronouncement of a corporate mogul, but it was more genuine than anything Rufus had said so far. Allowing herself a grin, Elfe reached out a hand which the President grasped and shook.

“Sounds alright to me.”

\--

“I can’t believe you agreed to that,” Fuhito told her once the bulk of negotiations had been hashed out. He didn’t seem annoyed so much as baffled.

“The idea, as I’ve told you, is to shut down makou reactors,” Elfe reminded him. “I know we’d all love to throttle the former President, but this is a much more civilized way to achieve our goals. We’re all adults here. If we can come to terms and agree on at least a few things without drawing steel, we should.”

“I don’t disagree,” Fuhito replied, shifting uncomfortably, “but how can you trust them? Any of them? And now you’re to join forces with General Sephiroth?”

“He’s head of their military, I’m head of ours,” she told him flatly. “I don’t have to like him, I just have to work with him and make sure our troops don’t start shooting each other just for spite. Shears is already selecting people to stay here along with the contingent of Shinra troops.”

“Some of them are whispering that you’ve sold them out, that you’ve been seduced by the enemy.”

Elfe could not avoid rolling her eyes. “Sephiroth has many fans. I am not one of them. I should think after watching us fight they’d realize I’m more likely to kill him than kiss him.”

Fuhito shrugged. “Be that as it may, I’m worried.”

“I know you are,” she told him kindly, “and I appreciate it, but I can handle myself. I’ll have a word with the troops.”

“And your hand?”

She froze briefly. She had thought no one had noticed. “It’s fine,” she assured him perhaps too quickly for he frowned.

“If you say so,” he said dubiously. “Please, if you’re in pain, don’t ignore it. You know no one will think less of you for it. Need I remind you what happened last time?”

“I know that. It’s not our troops I’m worried about.”

“They don’t need to know. They won’t know, so long as you take care of yourself. Please, at least let me look at it?”

Elfe sighed heavily. “Oh alright.”

Fuhito turned toward their camp and the coal shed, and Elfe took a step to follow him, immediately jumping back as a bolt of plasma struck the earth just in front of her.

“What the hell?” she demanded, drawing her sword. A second bolt smote the street, shattering a cobblestone and sending shards flying in all directions. “WHO GAVE THE ORDER TO FIRE?!”

“It’s not us.” General Sephiroth had appeared at her elbow. “Look.”

She did look, eyes widening in disbelief then horror. A wall of people and machines was descending upon the village, scurrying down the mountainside like so many insects.

“I thought you said you took the whole damn army with you?!”

“I thought I did too…”

The quaver in his voice was almost undetectable, but Elfe heard it and swallowed hard.

“So this isn’t a double-cross?” she asked, looking at him askance.

He shook his head. “Not on you.” 

\--


	36. Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are field commissions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although there is no canon material stating how Lazard got his position as Director of SOLDIER, I figured he'd have to be former military himself to have a job like that. Civilians just don't get put in positions like that, and for good reason. Because this is fanfic, here is my take on things.

_  
He heard it before he saw it, turned to look just as the Captain pricked his own ears to the whistle pitched almost too high to hear._

_“INCOMING!” the Captain bellowed, grabbing him around the waist and throwing him bodily to the ground. Sephiroth sputtered, mouth full of dirt, the wind knocked out of him from the weight of his Captain’s body and the concussion of the shell. Above him, the Captain tried to move but didn’t get very far. An agonized groan sounded distantly in ears still ringing from the bomb blast. The utter irony was that it was a Shinra missile. Wutai didn’t have that kind of heavy artillery. However, their little strikeforce was so deep behind enemy lines that they’d taken fire whether it was intentional or not. Something warm and wet was percolating through the legs of his fatigues. A fresh surge of alarm shot through him and Sephiroth wiggled out from under his commanding officer._

_“You okay, kid?” Captain Lazard panted, face white and waxen beneath the dirt._

_“Yeah, I’m…” Sephiroth trailed off, feeling the blood drain from his own face. The right side of Lazard’s body was dotted with shrapnel fragments, his skin badly burned. The lower half of his right leg was entirely gone. Only a ragged, bloody stump remained, red pouring out of the broken end to muddy the earth._

_“Holy Carp…” Sephiroth muttered. At only fifteen and just a few months in the military, he had not yet learned to swear effectively. Yanking off his belt, he looped it around Lazard’s knee and **pulled**. Lazard cried out at that, biting back any further screams behind clenched teeth._

_The shell had quieted their section of the battlefield for the moment, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Other members of the unit were picking themselves up and readying weapons. Sephiroth looked to Lazard who was shivering with what he hoped was only pain. If he went into shock here, odds were high he would not leave the battlefield alive._

_“We need...to get out of here…” Lazard grunted, trying to breathe through the pain._

_The sounds of many feet approaching made Sephiroth look up. Too late. The landscape was suddenly alive with Wutaian troops, all of them racing toward them, weapons drawn and ready._

_“PREPARE TO ENGAGE!” he heard himself holler. “DEFEND THE CAPTAIN! EITHER WE ALL LEAVE, OR NONE OF US DOES!”_

_He started as something grabbed his ankle. It was Lazard, sword gripped in his free hand._

_“Hey kid,” he wheezed, “trade ya.”_

_It only made sense. Lazard couldn’t very well wield a sword in his present condition. Sephiroth’s rifle would be easier to use and offer more protection. Sephiroth handed the gun to him and took the sword just in time for the first wave to arrive._

_Most of them carried the extra-long swords that could only be found in this part of the world. Against the shorter swords of the Shinra soldiers the Wutaian masamune had a decided advantage in reach if not necessarily in maneuverability. Sephiroth didn’t think about that as he raced to meet the oncoming horde. All he could think of was Lazard’s blasted leg, and keeping the opposing forces away from him and the rest of the unit. He barely noticed as he dodged the swipe of the first soldier, ducking in close, digging his blade in and swinging up, splitting the man in two in a fountain of blood. The second met a similar fate, as Sephiroth caught him on the backswing. The soldier collapsed to the ground like a felled tree, a surprised expression on his face, having never known what hit him. It went on like that; moving from one to the next in seemingly endless succession. It didn’t take him long to lose count. Somewhere in the middle, his sword broke. He stabbed the jagged shard into the next soldier, grabbed the dead man’s sword, and kept swinging. There were fewer of them now. Several had begun running in the other direction. It was not enough that they were retreating. He had to get rid of them all. Like the targets at the practice range, he had to hit all of them. That was the way it worked. On the point of chasing them down, Lazard’s voice finally penetrated the white noise ringing between his ears._

_“SEPH! SEPHIROTH! SEPH, STAND DOWN! **STAND DOWN!** ”_

_A flood of navy blue uniforms rushed past him, chasing after the Wutaians that had disappeared back into the hills. He started, dropping back to earth with a jolt, raising his sword to strike but lowering it just as quickly when he turned to engage. Lazard had grabbed his ankle again. Letting out a shaky breath, Sephiroth sank down next to his commander, suddenly light-headed. The unit medic was fussing over Lazard. What remained of his leg had been thickly wrapped in a bandage and what appeared to be someone’s shirt. The bleeding might have stopped, but even a full-level cure materia was not going to fix this kind of damage._

_“You okay?” Lazard asked him, still pale but breathing more even. Sephiroth noticed a couple of morphine caps sticking out of his leg. The question puzzled him until he noticed how damp and sticky his uniform had become. Looking down, Sephiroth realized he was coated in blood, though none of it was his own._

_“Yeah,” Sephiroth replied automatically, trying vainly to wipe his face with one hand. All it did was smear the mess even more._

_“You did good,” Lazard told him. “Here.” Stretching, he took Sephiroth’s collar in both hands._

_“Sir?” Sephiroth asked, unable to see what Lazard was doing._

_“You’re in command now.”_

_Sephiroth blinked, fingering his collar. Lazard had pinned his captain’s bars to the thick fabric._

_“You’re in command,” Lazard repeated. “You can do this.”_

_Mutely, Sephiroth nodded and stood to survey the carnage spread around them. Swallowing hard, he fought the urge to be sick. In the thick of it, high on adrenaline, it hadn’t seemed as if there were this many. Dozens of men- perhaps more than a hundred- lay strewn about in various postures of death and dismemberment, blood pooling among the blades of grass like water in the sunken fields where the locals grew rice. They had not died of gunshot wounds, and Lazard had been the only one in their unit to carry a sword. His gorge rose hot and acidic but he swallowed it back. Forcing himself not to gag, Sephiroth picked his way to the nearest corpse and pulled the man’s sheath from his back. Settling it on his own shoulders, he wiped the blade on the dead soldier’s uniform and slid the sword inside the narrow case._

_“We can’t occupy these hills,” he decided. “They know them too well. We get the Captain back to base first.”_

_The soldiers were smiling, amused. Sephiroth tried to hold his face still, to stand straight, but one of them chuckled._

_“Sir,” he began, and Sephiroth blinked at the title, “ **you’re** Captain now.”_

__


	37. Dog Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sephiroth and Co discover that Deepground is not, in fact, an urban myth.  
> It's very real, and very annoying.
> 
> In other words: It's BOSS FIGHT TIME!

“ _HOSTILE FORCES! DEFEND THE TOWN!_ ” he shouted at a couple of infantrymen who had also become transfixed. “ _GET ALL CITIZENS INSIDE!_ ”

The infantrymen jumped, saluted, and took off at run. A moment later one of the emergency sirens for the coal mines began to blair, its thin, feline wail piercing the air. A moment later his spiky-haired second came racing up the street.

“What we got?” he asked, slightly breathless, flipping a hasty salute.

“Scramble the SOLDIERs to engage,” Sephiroth told him, already striding toward the invaders, forcing Elfe to trot in order to keep pace. “Keep the rookies here to hold the defensive. Vincent!”

The man with the colored contacts had appeared as if by magic at the General’s elbow.

“Tell Tseng what’s going on,” Sephiroth continued. “You and the other Turks engage or support as needed. See if you can put the former President’s explosives to good use.”

Elfe tried to keep the red-eyed man in sight as he saluted and ran in the other direction, but soon lost him amid the rush of troops and the general controlled panic that had enveloped the village.

“We’ll help,” she put in. Avalanche might be made up of vigilantes, but they were not about to let a village full of innocent people suffer.

“Do what you do best,” Sephiroth told her without looking away from the advancing troops. “Avalanche is far better at guerilla tactics than SOLDIERs are. We have the armor and the firepower, we’ll take point. Have your people assemble and support us from the sides and the rear.”

Elfe fought the instinct to salute and shout ‘Sir!’ She had fought for Avalanche for ten years, commanded it for the last three, but all of their military forays had been covert. Open engagement was not something in which her people had much experience. Instead she nodded and confirmed her agreement with a simple “Right!” before darting for her own camp.

It didn’t take long to assemble the troops. Sephiroth was right. What had once been a vast and seemingly undefeatable army had been sadly depleted. Many recruits and conscripts had resigned shortly after Wutai. The defection of Sephiroth’s fellow SOLDIER officers Angeal and Genesis and their respective units had put a further dent in the military population. It didn’t take a genius to realize at a glance that even with Avalanche and the Turks as auxiliary, Sephiroth’s remaining troops were pathetically outnumbered. Sephiroth had seen live combat at just fifteen and had become a General at twenty. He had to be good at more than just piling up corpses. If he was going to prove his military brilliance, now would be the time to do it.

\--

This was bad. This was _so_ bad. The cold feeling had settled in Sephiroth’s gut again; not so much for himself, but for the men around him. Shinra would retaliate, he had known that when he’d left and taken the army with him. He had not, however, expected _this_. There were more, far more than he ever could have imagined. Where they had come from he could not begin to guess. Behind the armor, below the uniforms, these soldiers looked more like beasts than people. Indeed, many of them galloped up the rocky slope on all fours.

“ _HOLD FAST!_ ” he called back, drawing Masamune from her sheath. “ _DO NOT BREAK RANK, DO NOT GIVE GROUND! IF SHINRA WANTS ITS ARMY BACK, I SAY WE GIVE THEM WHAT THEY WANT!_ ”

Battles for Sephiroth were made up of beginnings and endings. If he was lucky, there was time to plan, to strategize, to train and prepare. Otherwise all he could do was draw steel and charge in head-first.

There was a zen-like quality to battle. The concussion of heavy artillery, the barrage of gunfire, the clash of steel on steel and the cries of men and beasts blended together into a cacophony so deafening it diminished in his ears to mere white noise; silence born of chaos. His sword arm rose and fell, hewing down men and beasts as if they were no more than dry grass. Most of the soldiers he cut down barely registered unless they put up a fight. Few of them ever did. They were not people but obstacles; a hostile force there to put an end to both his men and himself and the village if he let them.

On either side of him SOLDIERs and Shinra infantry did their best to follow suit, carving a bloody path through flesh and armor with steel and lead. In Wutai they had mown down the native troops in their wood and copper armor like dry grass, but were having a hard time of it now. For every soldier cut down, three more seemed to spring up to replace them. Gunfire echoed off the mountains, the sound magnified by the bare rock loud enough to deafen. Bullets chipped at treebark, buried themselves in flesh, sending splinters and blood spraying in all directions. Muttering to himself, Sephiroth extended his free hand, sending a column of fire into the oncoming horde, the better to clear the field. The gap left by the charred bodies remained open for perhaps ten seconds, closing rapidly as more faceless soldiers poured in like water into a trench. They were _fast_ , as easily as fast and also as strong as the SOLDIERs. Most were armed with rifles, but several carried swords. It was almost like fighting machines; their movements short and precise with the force to back them up, but strangely lacking in style. While their speed and strength made them more annoying to combat, what was becoming increasingly alarming was the sheer number of them. There seemed to be no end to the gray-clad figures still charging up the mountain toward Corel. It was as if his own troops had not even put a dent in them.

Leaping out of the way of a mortar shell, Sephiroth chanced a quick look around. Although there was no trace of the red-headed woman he had fought before, the leader had to be somewhere. There. Back a bit and holding one of the short-range cannons as if it were no more than a rifle was the biggest person Sephiroth had ever seen. He had to be the one in charge.

“FOCUS ON THE LEADER!” he bellowed above the roar of battle. “CONCENTRATE ALL FIRE ON THE GIANT!”

A Giant he was. The man had to be close to ten foot tall. Stranger things had been bred in the depths of the Shinra lab, but Sephiroth had not seen anything like this man before. He was absolutely enormous with legs and arms as thick around as tree trunks. Although he wore body armor, he had not bothered with a helmet. Piercing gold eyes stared from below brows and short-cropped hair of SOLDIER-blue. Clearly he’d been infused with an absurd amount of makou. Stripes of the same brilliant blue had been painted down his cheeks. It took him a moment, but at last Sephiroth was able to place the design: tattoos unique to Costan natives. Very curious. He wasn’t given any further time to ponder what a ten-foot-tall aboriginal was doing wielding a cannon on the battlefield. The Giant had fired straight at him and Sephiroth had dive out of the way to avoid both the shell and the shrapnel it threw upon impact.

Okay, _now_ he was getting annoyed.

The Giant grinned, turning to face him again. Although the time it took to swing the canon around slowed him somewhat, clearly his own size was no hindrance for the enormous soldier.

“General Sephiroth,” the big man boomed in a voice so deep it must have begun at his toes. “What an honor.”

Sephiroth ignored the taunt. Only recruits too green to know any better engaged in a verbal duel while crossing live weaponry. Instead he dove forward, past the six-foot barrel and aimed a slash at the Giant’s unprotected arms. To his mild surprise the Giant swung the canon up, just blocking Masamune’s long blade. She bit deep into the metal, but did not sever the barrel completely. The cut had not been meant to kill, only to injure. Yanking Masamune free, Sephiroth took a step back, careful to remain too far into the Giant’s personal space for him to use the canon as intended, forcing him to swing it like a bludgeon. Although he hated to dull her blade on metal, Sephiroth swung Masamune in a series of feints, making the Giant use his canon not as a firearm but as a shield. In a matter of seconds the weapon was fizzing and sparking, the barrel sheared off at its base, utterly useless. The Giant hurriedly tossed it aside before it could explode. It landed amid a cluster of gray-clad troops, leaving behind only a smoking crater. Sephiroth blinked, horrified. Did the lives of the Giant’s men really matter so little? Leaning in close, the Giant took a swipe at him. Although his upper arms were bare, his hands and forearms were protected by studded gloves and thick gauntlets. Striking the Giant’s knuckles with Masamune’s blade did little more than produce a shower of sparks. Even still, bare knuckles were no match for a blade.

“Surrender,” Sephiroth advised. “You and your troops will be well-treated.”

The Giant laughed, a sound that would have been chilling if Sephiroth hadn’t so often heard the same hollow bark from Vincent’s throat.

“Isn’t it you Shinra lot who say that failure is not an option?” the Giant replied, charging toward him.

It was the ones who’d lost their conscience that were the most dangerous. They didn’t care; not about their men, nor about themselves. If the Giant had nothing left to lose, it would not occur to him to pull his punches, as it were. It wasn’t easy to dodge his attacks, to sneak his own in past the rapid fire of the Giant’s fists. It was almost like fighting Angeal and Genesis; would have been a delightful match had present circumstances not been so deadly serious. At last Sephiroth managed to land a blow, Masamune’s blade raking a long cut up the Giant’s shoulder. The Giant jerked in pain, bellowed in rage, and Sephiroth took the opportunity to bury his sword deep in the Giant’s flesh. Unable to yank Masamune free in time, the Giant’s wrist caught him square in the middle, sending him tumbling to the dirt.

Embarrassed and not a little annoyed with himself, Sephiroth managed to land on his feet, sending up a huge cloud of dust as he skidded to a halt. Unable to lift his dominant arm, the Giant snarled at the sudden press of gunfire from the Shinra troops now that their general was out of the way. Many of the shots met their mark, sending rivulets of black blood trailing down his uniform, but the Giant just stood there laughing. The sound eerily familiar, Sephiroth could only stand and watch as realization clicked into place:

_He wants his limit break to trigger._

It was surreal, like watching Vincent but magnified. The Giant threw back his head and howled, his blue hair seeming to flow and waver like grass in the wind, traveling down until it covered his entire body. His skull contorted, horns sprouting from his heavy brows, fangs and claws appearing where there had been none. Half a heartbeat later a King Behemoth stood where the Giant had been. The beast roared, throwing back its head before charging straight for him. Sephiroth readied Masamune, but started as a familiar voice penetrated the noise.

“No,” Vincent said, holding a hand out for him to stay back. “I’ve got this.”

It took Sephiroth half a second to make the leap of logic. “Going to show him who’s Alpha Male?”

“It isn’t him,” Vincent rumbled and charged toward the raging beast.

“STAND DOWN!” Sephiroth shouted, signaling with one hand for the troops to halt. “HOLD YOUR FIRE! _HOLD YOUR FIRE!_ ”

This of course did not stop the opposing forces from firing on Vincent or anyone else. While Vincent had to absorb the damage necessary to trigger a limit break, Sephiroth didn’t want him to die on the way there.

“CONCENTRATE FIRE ON INCOMING!” he bellowed. “DO NOT ENGAGE THE BEAST!”

Leaving the monster to Vincent, Sephiroth readied Masamune for a fresh assault. Dealing with the infantry and four-legged troops was simpler than combatting the Giant; requiring less ingenuity and more brute force to keep the seemingly endless onslaught under control. A good thing too, since the bulk of the Shinra forces consisted of recruits carrying rifles. Spraying the enemy with a barrage of bullets took down more soldiers at a time than engaging hand-to-hand individually with swords.

Although Avalanche and the Turks had entered the fray, it didn’t seem to have made much difference. Zack’s unit was still largely intact if the knot of blue and purple uniforms were any indication, as were most of the other units hacking away at the endless gray. With no armor to speak of, the Turks had fallen back to act as snipers, picking off any enemy troops that had somehow managed to penetrate the line, or who were making a nuisance of themselves to the soldiers who already had their hands full.

Avalanche, as he’d mentioned himself, were much better at fighting dirty and were giving as good as they got. Not bothering with more formal military tactics, they did everything from simply shooting to employing more ingenuous strategies such as triplines, falling rocks, and other simple yet effective traps. Elfe’s white cape shone starkly amide the wash of gray, black, and blue, which was strangely reassuring. However, lacking the heavy armor and high-quality weapons of the Shinra troops, it was easy to see that it wouldn’t take much to overwhelm them.

“FENRIR SQUAD, GIVE AVALANCHE A HAND!” he hollered, already making a run for the knot of vigilantes. “GET THEM OUT OF THAT CORNER!”

A savage growl brought his attention back to Vincent and the Giant. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he looked just in time to see Vincent undergo his own gruesome transformation. The Behemoth seemed surprised at this, but recovered quickly. The two beasts stared each other down, ears flat, hackles raised, jowls curled back in twin snarls. Vincent- Gallian- struck first, lunging in to latch his jaws around the Behemoth’s thick scruff. To Sephiroth’s surprise, the larger animal stumbled at the impact, rolling onto its side. The beast struggled to stand, but Gallian grabbed it with both of his hand-like forepaws and shoved it to the ground again. Gallian, despite being about half the size of the King Behemoth had the advantage of thumbs and the ability to stand upright. Clearly the larger animal was struggling to fend off something that fought with the combined strength of both man and beast. The larger animal growled, jaws snapping, finally throwing Gallian off. It lunged at him, all teeth and rage, but Gallian met him head on. Standing on his hind legs, he howled, unleashing a burst of fireballs. Sephiroth blinked. Gallian knew magic.

“Little help, Boss!”

It was Zack, stumbling back and almost into him as he cut down another anonymous soldier. Sephiroth shook himself, refocusing on the task at hand. Although he had not been idle while he watched Gallian fight, he hadn’t truly been giving his full attention to the battle. Corpses were piling up thick on the ground, making it difficult for his men and the never-ending onslaught of enemy combatants to walk.

“The _hell_ are they all coming from?” Zack demanded, slicing yet another one of the four-legged attackers in half. “There’s too damn many of them!”

“Vincent’s got the leader well in hand- er- paw,” Sephiroth told him, twirling to catch two at once with the sharp side of Masamune’s blade. “Once the commander falls they’ll retreat if not surrender.”

“Here’s hoping!” Zack agreed, charging forward when an opening finally appeared amid the endless flood of gray uniforms. Like the point of an arrow he tore through the wall of gray, black and purple following behind him, hewing down troops on either side. It did not take them long to force their way through, the green of Avalanche uniforms rushing forward to push the gray back.

“ABOUT DAMN TIME!” Elfe shouted, stabbing one of the beast-like soldiers and shoving it away.

“SORRY!” Zack shouted back. “WE’RE ALL A LITTLE BUSY!”

Elfe’s unit was higher up, occupying a narrow pass between the cliffs that would not allow sufficient access for a large number should the enemy troops discover it, but was a vulnerable spot nonetheless. From this vantage it was easier to see what he could not farther down the hillside: they weren’t just losing, they were drowning. Although the vast majority of the dead wore gray, there were too many Shinra and Avalanche uniforms among them; spots of color beneath a thick layer of blood and dirt. Zack was right. There were simply too many.

“Tell me you have a plan,” Elfe panted, making her way over, cutting down a few additional troops as she went. Sephiroth opened his mouth to reply- a wise-crack befitting Zack on the tip of his tongue- when another voice split the noise of the battle.

“TASTE MY STEEL, SHINRA LAP DOGS!”

“What the everloving _fuck?_ ” Zack asked, voicing Sephiroth’s thoughts. “Are you _kidding me?!_ ”

Sephiroth stared open-mouthed as a ghost and several more like him descended from the ledge above.

“WHEN THE WAR OF THE BEASTS BRINGS ABOUT THE WORLD’S END, THE GODDESS SHALL DESCEND FROM THE SKY!” the ghost cried, and plunged his burning blade into the earth as he landed, sending out a shockwave that knocked several dozen of the gray-clad troops flat on their backs.

Well, if he needed any further proof, there it was. Only Genesis Rhapsodos would charge into battle quoting “Loveless”. Still very much alive, he and a small platoon of men who looked enough like him to be related rushed into the fray. The oncoming hordes seemed a bit taken aback by this as well, for they paused momentarily in their attack. The dogfight still raging between the King Behemoth and Gallian was also making it a bit difficult, the two massive animals rolling over one another as well as anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. Taking a precious second, Sephiroth grabbed his PHS and flipped it open.

“TSENG!”

“Sir,” Tseng replied, the wince audible in his tone.

“Time to put the President’s explosives to good use!”

“Copy that. We’ve placed the explosives immediately behind you, out of range of the town. Pull everyone back as far as the tree line.”

“Copy,” Sephiroth agreed. Even if some of the enemy soldiers made it behind the line, if there was a finite number of them, Sephiroth felt confident they could be taken care of. But that still left them with the problem of Vincent. Then again, animals were more canny than humans when it came to matters of earth and weather. Gallian wasn’t stupid. With any luck he’d be able to sense what was going on and get himself to safety.

“FALL BACK!” Sephiroth called out, raising Masamune high above his head. “FALL BACK TO THE TREE LINE! RETREAT!”

His troops, bless them, seemed confused, but did as they were told. Overhead fire increased as the Turks did their best to keep the endless waves of gray-clad troops at bay.

“Are we back far enough?” Sephiroth asked into his still open PHS.

“Just a little more...there!” Tseng confirmed. “Get the rest of your people over the line and move back another twenty yards at least! We don’t want anyone else getting caught in the explosion.”

“Copy. Over and out,” Sephiroth told him, closing the phone with a snap. He barely had time to pocket the thing before one of the four-legged creatures lunged at him, all teeth and claws. Masamune sliced it in half like a ripe piece of fruit, the two halves falling to the ground in a cascade of black blood. Rather than run further up the slope, he stayed put, ushering troops past him towards the relative safety of the trees.

“BACK!” he shouted, hearing himself rasp as he did so. “EVERYONE BACK!”

Avalanche was already mostly within the treeline. Several members had climbed into the branches and were assisting the Turks in picking off any of the enemy troops that got too close. Halfway down the mountain side Gallian and the King Behemoth were still going at it fang and claw. No longer surrounded by a wall of gray, a cloud of dust ringed them as they fought, their coats streaked with lather. Black blood spattered the ground around them liberally. Sephiroth could only hope it wasn’t Vincent’s.

The last of the stragglers were panting up the hill, among them a familiar mop of spiky blond hair.

“MOVE IT, STRIFE!” Sephiroth barked, shoving the boy with one hand up the slope. Was that everyone? Gods he hoped so. They couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The wall of gray was gathering itself like a wave, preparing to crash into them and drown them in their own blood.

“ _NOW!!!_ ”

It was not the explosion that was deafening so much as the mountain itself. The blast echoed from every cliff and boulder, magnified over and over again so that it seemed to shake the sky. First there was a shifting of sand, the trickle of dust, and then a rumble. Like steps of a herd of stampeding Chocobo it grew, gathering speed and volume. If the oncoming horde heard it, they gave no indication, but continued to charge up the hill, shouting a battle cry of their own.

Until they ran out of hill to charge up.

The entire mountain shook as the wave of earth and gravel washed over them, sweeping them away. Most of them did not even have the chance to scream. Sephiroth grabbed a convenient tree branch with his free hand, watching, heart in his throat as the wall of earth swept toward Gallian and the King Behemoth.

Gallian was breathing hard but seemed unhurt. The Behemoth, by contrast, was bleeding freely from several wounds, the black blood matting his coat. Gallian roared and snarled, lunging once again. This time, when the Behemoth fell to the ground, he stayed there.

“ _VINCENT!_ ” Sephiroth shouted, his voice collapsing halfway through the last syllable. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, that Gallian could not hear him. The beast, however, did look up.

He barked at the larger creature, but the Behemoth just laid there. Standing on his hind legs, Gallian delivered a savage swipe of his claws to the Behemoth’s hind quarters. The beast started and jerked to all fours. Gallian growled again and snapped at its tail, forcing the other animal to move forward. The huge creature cowered at the oncoming tsunami of earth, ears flat and tail between its legs. With a bark and another snap of his jaws, Gallian chased the creature straight toward the flood of earth. Sephiroth held his breath as first the Behemoth then Gallian leaped over the crest, galloping on all fours up the cascade as best they could.

“C’MON VINCENT!” Zack shouted at his elbow. “YOU CAN DO IT, BOY!”

Four legs churning the moving earth, tongue hanging out a mile, Gallian gathered himself and leaped. He landed panting and soaked in lather among the trees, the Behemoth following a moment later. A cheer went up, not just from the troops, but from the village as well. Taking a deep breath, Sephiroth closed his eyes and briefly leaned against the tree, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

Padding over to him, four legs shaking with exhaustion, Gallian sat down with the air of one victorious. The Behemoth followed several steps behind, stopping a pace or so behind Gallian and laid down with its nose between its paws. Pushing away from the tree, Sephiroth placed his free hand on its nose, accepting its surrender.

No sooner had he laid a hand on the blood-spattered fur than the shaggy coat began to quiver. The Behemoth shivered and shrank until the Giant knelt on all fours like a peasant bowing to a lord.

“Do you surrender?” Sephiroth asked him, lifting Masamune just in case.

The Giant did not look up, but pressed his forehead to the ground in obeisance. “I do.”

Sephiroth nodded to Zack. “Fair. Take him into custody.”

Zack blinked. “The hell am I gonna do that?” he hissed behind one hand. “He’s like eleven feet tall!”

“Just do it!” Sephiroth whispered back. “Commander Verdot? Tseng?”

Both of them appeared from amid the crowd of mingled Shinra and Avalanche troops and saluted.

“Take a head count,” he rasped, his voice scratchy from so much shouting. “Avalanche, Shinra, Turks. Make sure all the villagers are present and accounted for as well.”

Turning, he looked out over the mountainside. There were indeed hundreds of corpses half-buried in the loose rock and soil. He had never been told why, only that it took longer for the corpses of SOLDIERs to degenerate into pyreflies. Now, however, he thought he knew why.

“Tseng, once the slope settles, take your people and look for survivors. Put anyone in gray out of their misery if they haven’t gone by morning.”

“Sir,” Tseng saluted and turned to do just that.

That took care of everything except… Sephiroth looked around, but Genesis and his own small unit were nowhere to be seen. Had they been caught in the landslide? Perhaps he’d only imagined them after all...

“Dismissed,” he finished tiredly. 

Only now did he notice how long the shadows of the pine trees had become, and how low the sun was hanging in the sky. Gods, how long had they been at this? Although he would have liked to lean back against the cliff wall, Sephiroth continued to hold himself straight and tall. It was not the physical exertion so much as the emotional strain of worrying about people he’d learned to care for more deeply since the last battle: Zack, Vincent, Veld, Aeris, even little Strife and his friend Tifa. There had been a moment when he thought he’d lost every friend he had. Angeal and Genesis were gone, the empty spaces they’d left would never be filled. However, that did not mean there weren’t other spaces waiting to be taken up by new friends. He waited as they all filed past until it was only Commander Verdot, Tseng and himself who stood in the midst of the gap. This was one instance in which it would not be appropriate to be first. A general’s first duty was to his- or her- men. People? Something. Either way, he would not be able to rest himself until he knew that all his subordinates who were yet alive had been seen to.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to Tseng and Commander Verdot. “Both of you.”

“You too,” Commander Verdot replied. “You could have let us get massacred, but you didn’t.”

“You thought I would?”

“It crossed my mind,” she admitted.

“I hope we’ve each proved ourselves to the other? At least a little bit.”

Commander Verdot smiled crookedly. “A little bit,” she agreed and offered her hand.

Allowing himself a smile, Sephiroth took it and shook.

\--


	38. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are questions, answers, bargaining, and selling out.  
> All for a very good cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not Dirge Azul.  
> Just like that was not Dirge Rosso. Or Weiss. Or Nero.
> 
> These are not the droids you're looking for.
> 
> You're welcome.

Once upon a time, Azul had known what “normal” was. It had never been him. He had always been bigger than everyone else; not just by a few inches, not by a head. He’d been over seven foot tall at the age of fifteen and strong. So strong he’d killed another boy, a friend. It had been an accident, but he’d still fled, horrified by what he’d done. Normal boys were not that big. Normal boys did not kill their friends by mistake.

However, ever since joining Deepground, he’d learned what it was to be the _least_ dysfunctional person in the room. That in itself was a strangeness all its own. At first it had been normal enough- for a rather loose definition of “normal”. The treatments for the wounded soldiers could be unorthodox, but it hadn’t been unethical. When had that changed? He could not recall. Perhaps he’d been down here too long. However, he depended on them to keep him alive. Without the monthly treatments, his heart would give out. Giants were not uniformly huge and tended to have weak or under-sized organs that could not support a body so large. Had Shinra not intervened, he would have died at twenty, and here he was over thirty. Besides, his heart was more likely to break than stop should he ever decide he’d had enough. He couldn’t leave. Not with the kids still looking up to him like a big brother, or an uncle. Except none of them knew what an uncle was.

None of them had known loving parents or extended family. Only Weiss and Nero shared the same blood, but all three of them were as good as siblings to one another. They’d been so little when he’d first met them; Rosso no more than eleven, Nero just nine. Azul had known unruly children, but the three of them were wild in ways that went beyond youthful energy. They were feral, vicious, more like wolf cubs than human children. He’d never stopped thinking of them that way.

Had he not intervened in their unique brand of sibling rivalry, there might only be one other Tsviet besides himself.

Although at twenty-two, twenty-one, and twenty, they were hardly children anymore. They were hardened to things that no adult should never have to see, have to experience, let alone a child. By fifteen each of them had begun killing a dozen recruits a day and thought nothing of it. Then of course there was the Breeding Program… Azul shuddered, shoving that atrocity back into the dark corner of his mind from whence it had escaped. Despite their immunity to violence, their ignorance of the atrocities on every side, there were ways in which they remained strangely innocent. Azul did what he could to protect that innocence. It wasn’t easy.

He did have help, though. The weaponsmith was one of precious few who had been living in the dark almost as long as he had, yet still remembered the light of the sun. Too few of Deepground’s inhabitants still had their souls intact, and he was grateful in a way he would never be able to express simply to know someone else like him existed. It would have been difficult to put an exact age to her; the helmet and the safety mask that covered one eye made it tricky to tell by her face, but he guessed her to be close to his own. Although she too was named after a color, she did not fight; only rarely leaving her forge, and never leaving Deepground itself. “Argento” was the only name shed had ever given him; Argento the Silver.

“I wish you would allow me to make you a blade,” she had said to him yet again before he shipped out. “The canon is impressive to be sure, but it does not compliment your abilities. Will you not let me craft you something befitting of your strength and stature?”

That was how she spoke, as if she were delivering lines from a period play. He didn’t understand the reason, but he liked to listen. Smiling a little, he shook his head.

“I’d feel guilty using anything you made for me. Weapons should be used for justice. This is slaughter.”

She never argued that. Offering her own sad smile, she handed his repaired gauntlets back to him.

“Return to us,” she warned him, stretching to touch his shoulder as he knelt to retrieve the gloves. It was the best they could do in full view of everyone and the Restrictors who were always watching. “Return victorious. Return safe.”

As if there were any other way to return. Sitting in the massive concrete and aluminum shed with a large pile of coal still in it, chains meant for the coal carts looped around his wrists and ankles, Azul tried to think what Argento would do were their situations reversed? She was the one with the brains, not him. It wouldn’t be hard to snap the chains, but even if he were to make like a rampaging ogre and stomp everyone in his path, it would do him no good. The entirety of his troops were gone, buried under the mountainside. They’d be no help. He was on his own, chained up in a coal shed. So what was he to do?

He might have been able to make more progress if he hadn’t been so horribly confused. Before transforming he’d been able to take note of at least two separate armies- one decidedly larger than the other- Shinra, and what had looked to him like Avalanche vigilantes. Which made absolutely no sense. The Behemoth had witnessed a third small strike force headed by a man in a red coat, which also made no sense. Genesis Rhapsodos was dead and Shinra and Avalanche were mortal enemies. So what the _hell_ were they doing all fighting together? Pressure of a common enemy, he supposed. His mission had been to capture Sephiroth and the remaining troops that had gone rogue. Now they had captured _him_. It was damnably awkward to say the least.

Running would do him no good. He might make it as far as the edge of the village before he was overtaken. Sephiroth was out there, as were the remaining SOLDIERs, not to mention the red-eyed man that apparently had had the same procedure Azul had undergone. Did _everyone_ with a bum heart have a Behemoth tissue transplant? Then again, the guy had been wearing a Turk suit. Maybe it was just Shinras who got the good stuff? He ought to know. No, his only option now was to try to negotiate. If he could figure out what was up with Shinra joining forces with everyone they’d ever hated, maybe he’d have a better idea of what to do next.

The door hinges shrieked, making him look up. Azul had expected to be left to stew, hungry and wounded, albeit not badly, until the following morning at the earliest. Instead, a black-haired Firstie with a Buster sword slung on his back held the door open as General Sephiroth, a woman in green, and the Turk he’d fought earlier all paraded through. Azul judged the SOLDIER to be a sub-commander of some kind, perhaps a lieutenant. One showed respect to a general, even if he was general of the opposing forces. Getting to his feet, Azul stood at attention though he did not salute.

“At ease, soldier,” General Sephiroth told him. “I am General Sephiroth, this is Commander Verdot of Avalanche, Agent Valentine of the Turks, and Colonel Fair. What’s your name?”

“Azul,” he replied, seeing no reason to lie or even to hold his silence. “Azul the Cerulean.”

Commander Verdot lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Seriously?”

Azul shrugged. “I didn’t pick it out.”

She gave a sort of sideways nod as if to say ‘fair enough’.

“I’ve met one of your subordinates,” the General went on, ignoring their exchange. “A woman who called herself Rosso.”

He couldn’t help the frown drawing his brows together, nor the resentment darkening his expression. Rosso’s failure to deliver the demon in red had meant punishment, and punishment in Deepground was never restricted to just one person. “I know,” he growled. “No thanks to you.”

The General blinked at this, but pressed on. “She said she was from Deepground.”

Azul nodded. “S’right. So am I. All of us, all my troops, we’re Deepground.”

“So it’s real?” Colonel Fair asked. “It does exist?”

The bitter chuckle that left his throat made his own flesh crawl. “It exists, and there’s more where that came from. Deepground’s been building an army since before you were born.”

The Turk looked confused. “The Deepground I knew was an intensive care unit. All the hard luck cases were treated there.”

“You’re not wrong,” Azul told him, “but it ain’t been that way for years.”

“What happened?” asked the General. Azul sighed through his nose and studied the coal-dusted floor. What _had_ happened? When had it gone downhill? At what point had things gone from benignly unorthodox to something resembling a bad horror film? Then it occurred to him. It wasn’t ‘what’ or ‘when’, it was _’who’_.

“The Restrictors.”

There were only four of them, but four was more than enough. By the time Azul had joined the Shinra military they had already been reigning over Deepground for decades. At one time they had been soldiers, the surviving members of the so-called “Lost Unit” that had been trapped behind enemy lines for over a year. Only four of them had been retrieved alive, and apparently the experience had done something to them. Azul’s first encounter with them had set the tone for every interaction since.

The kids had been little back then, all of them under twelve though they looked at least fourteen, only Nero still resembling the child he was. There were no colored Tsviets yet, only SOLDIERs in training, the three of them the youngest and most vicious recruits in ranks. Azul hadn’t seen potential killers, just a trio of wild kids trying to tear each other apart.

“STOP THAT!” he’d bellowed, seizing the older two by the scruff and lifting them off the ground. That got their attention. They had stared at him wide-eyed, gaping, as if they’d never been scolded before. “Be nice to your brother and sister. You’re supposed to look out for one another, not try to kill each other. Now you play nice or I’ll hang you on a hook.”

He’d barely set them down before something hard and heavy had connected with the back of his skull. When he’d picked himself up, the kids were gone and one of the Restrictors was standing over him.

“You will not poison their minds,” it had told him in a voice like an ancient intercomm. “Competition is important. If they are not strong enough to survive, they are not worthy.”

Only the microchip had kept him from snapping the fiend’s neck right then and there. It was the first, but by no means the last exchange he would have with a Restrictor. They had no heart, no soul, Azul had often wondered if they were even human? He had seen wounded soldiers that were now more prosthetic than flesh. Perhaps there was only machine left under the full helms and long cloaks they wore?

“The Restrictors control Deepground,” Azul told them, surfacing from his memories. “They don’t care what happens to the troops, what happens to the kids. We’re all ants to them. What they say goes. Refuse orders and they’ll kill you on the spot.”

“Kids?” the General echoed. “There are _children_ down there?”

“Sure. Lots. All of ‘em trained from the cradle to be that.” Azul gestured vaguely towards the collapsed hillside. “If they’re tough enough, maybe they’ll make Tsviet like me and my kids.”

“Wait,” this was Colonel Fair, “ _you_ have kids?”

“Three kids- and a wife too,” Azul added, thinking of Argento.

They all just looked at him. 

“Okay, they’re not really my kids, but I call ‘em that,” he tried to explain. “I’ve known ‘em since they were knee-high to a Cactaur. Nice normal things like family...they don’t exist down there, but there _are_ people I care about, people I wish weren’t down there. They’re not related by blood, but I’m all they’ve got. The kids...they’ll get into trouble without me.”

“What about your wife? Er…not-wife?” Colonel Fair asked. Azul shrugged.

“Argento’s not dumb. She can look out for herself, but she’s got her own job to do. She can’t keep an eye on the kids all the time.”

“Who are these kids?” Commander Verdot asked. Azul sighed.

“You’ve met one of ‘em already: Rosso, and her brothers Weiss and Nero.”

“Rosso tried to kill us,” the General pointed out. “I’m having difficulty believing she could be in any kind of trouble, Restrictors or not. Was there a reason you were sent and not her?”

“You don’t understand,” Azul insisted, “ain’t none of us can stand up to a Restrictor. If we could do you think I’d be sitting here right now? If I could have I would’ve snapped all four of ‘em in half twice back when I first enlisted. But I can’t. They make sure of it.”

“How?”

“We’re all microchipped,” Azul explained, gesturing with his bound hands at the back of his head. “The kids have had ‘em since they were little. Outside recruits have theirs implanted upon impressment. They do that so that no one can fight back or try to escape. Try to go out any exit- door, window, whatever- without authorization and the chip will detonate. Even a guy my size can’t survive an explosion- even a small one- inside his skull.”

“Damn,” Colonel Fair remarked, eyes wide.

“I’ve heard of cyanide capsules, but that seems extreme,” Commander Verdot remarked.

“The hell’s cyanide gonna do against this much makou?” Azul demanded.

“He’s got a point,” the General added.

She gave another sideways nod. “I guess you would know.” Turning, she addressed Azul herself. “Why were you sent?”

“To either bring the General and the troops back or wipe them out.”

“A tall order,” the General observed. “Why did Deepground send you and not Rosso or one of the others?”

“Rosso failed,” Azul shrugged forlornly. “She was sent to retrieve the demon in red that had been causing trouble in the Midgar slums, but instead you captured her. Nero thought he was rescuing her but…” He swallowed hard, not quite managing to repress a shudder. “Rosso’s on restricted duty until she’s learned her lesson. Nero...I haven’t seen him since, but he always hides after a reprimand.”

The General was looking at him as if he were speaking ancient Cetran, although if the rumors were anything to go by, General Sephiroth was probably fluent in the language of the Ancients.

“What do you mean by ‘reprimand’?”

Azul sighed heavily, lifting his chained wrists to rub the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Rosso can’t be hurt physically. She doesn’t feel pain. Something wrong with her tactile receptors. The only way to get to her is emotionally, and that’s not easy to do either. To put her in her place, the Restrictors punished Nero.”

“What happened?”

For a long moment Azul sat silent, attention drawn inward. He could answer questions all the livelong day, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He wasn’t going back. Either they’d kill him outright or hold him prisoner. Well, as his mother said, it never hurt to ask.

“I want to save my kids.”

“Excuse me?” Commander Verdot asked.

“I can tell you how to take Deepground down, but I want to save my kids. I know you won’t let me go, and that’s fine. If I went runnin’ back the Restrictors would take it out on the kids, not me, and I don’t want that. If I don’t come back Deepground will send them out to get me and to kill you. After what you did to my troops, they know you won’t come along quietly. They’ll send Rosso again, then Weiss, then Nero if they run out of ideas. I want you to promise me you won’t kill them.”

They all stared at him again.

“The microchip stops me from raising a hand against the Restrictors, it doesn’t stop me from double-crossing ‘em six ways to Sunday.”

Something that might have been a smile pulled at one side of the General’s face. “It seems defection is catching,” he remarked. “Does the microchip keep you from violence against your own troops?”

Azul shook his head. “Nope. It might occur to them to shut off the authorization codes, but I doubt the signal would reach this far. As long as I stay away from Midgar, I should be okay.”

“You’ll cooperate with us in exchange for the lives of your family, is that it?”

Azul nodded. “Yes.”

“Why should I believe you? How do I know you won’t turn on my men?”

“Didn’t say I wanted let free. Not that these’d hold me,” Azul told him, eyeing the mine cart chains wound around his wrists.

“So why haven’t you broken free?” Colonel Fair asked.

“What good would it do me? Besides, I don’t wanna wreck their equipment if I don’t have to.”

“Fair, remove the chains,” the General ordered. Giving a nod, Colonel Fair did as he was told. Hands clasped behind his back, General Sephiroth stared up at him, an appraising look in his piercing green eyes.

“We’re going to have to deal with them again,” the Turk remarked. “Probably sooner rather than later. Why wait for Deepground to release his children one at a time with an army of thousands each? Why not take the fight to them? We’ll need to confront Shinra directly at some point anyway.”

The General nodded, finally turning away to face the Turk. “True, but if Deepground has troops to spare, we’ll be overwhelmed no matter our tactics.”

“You need more people?” Azul interrupted. “I can help you with that.”

“How?” the General asked, facing him again.

“The prison in the desert south of here. Some of the inmates actually broke the law, but most of ‘em just got on the wrong side of Shinra. I should know. I did time there before enlisting.”

“For what?” Lieutenant Fair asked.

“Pissin’ off the wrong people,” Azul told him. “Turks collared me for involvement in a fight club. Evidently the organizers were supposed to pay a cut to the local Shinra office but never did. They hauled in the whole damn ring, myself included. Not sure I was ever actually charged with anything, but they wound up recruiting me and I wasn’t stupid enough to say ‘no’.”

“And here you are,” the General concluded.

“Here I am,” Azul agreed. “Trust me, if you liberate the intern camp alone you’ll have people linin’ up around the block to fight for you.”

“Intern camp?” the General seemed confused.

“How do you not know about that?” Commander Verdot asked. “Shinra’s been tossing political prisoners and people whom they find inconvenient in there for years. More than a few Kalm survivors got tossed in there for refusing the pay off.”

“I see…” the General stood quiet for a moment, contemplating the coal-dusted floor. “Very well. Fair, Commander Verdot, select half a dozen people each for a trip to Corel Prison. Also select either a commanding officer to join the party or to stay behind and guard the town. We need more troops. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

“What about him?” Colonel Fair asked, jerking a thumb at Azul.

“He will accompany us. We may require his powers of persuasion.”

Despite himself, Azul grinned and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

 

\--


	39. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Weiss learns a few new things.  
> No, not like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rape/dub/non-con, and generally extremely poor treatment of women.
> 
> Earning my "M" rating here.
> 
> Please assume, going forward, that pretty well anything featuring the Deepground cast is going to be very much Not Safe For Work.
> 
> Again, non-explicit, but not advised for younger readers.  
> If you not at least 18, shoo.
> 
> Also: I appreciate comments like you do not even know. Youguys are amazing and I love you all to pieces. <3 However, if you cannot think of anything more intelligent than "lol tehy did it lol" please don't feel as if you are required to share.
> 
> Thank you.

Before, Weiss had never thought much about his role in the breeding program. He just showed up, did what was expected of him, and that was that. He didn’t mind it, certainly; even looked forward to it. Deepground needed troops. Cloning was still a mystery to the Scientists, and so they continued to generate humans organically. It was easiest to create SOLDIERs from birth. Such had been the case with Rosso, Nero, and himself. The process was further streamlined if the male already carried Jenova’s cells. Therefore, Weiss and the other male SOLDIERs were expected to contribute DNA samples. No one was required to mate, though Azul was the only one he knew of who had chosen to opt out for reasons he would not explain. Weiss had assumed Azul just wasn’t into women.

Mothers had the unique distinction of being both precious and disposable. Fertile women had to be brought in from the outside. None of the female SOLDIERs could bear children. Fertile women carried babies, sterile women carried a gun. Rosso could not conceive and so she’d been trained to fight. Had she ever bled, she would have become a Mother and probably wouldn’t be here right now. The majority of the Mothers died before it was all over. Precious few lived to nurse their babies, and if they did, they were then put in ranks with the other female SOLDIERs.

Although it was rare, children might share DNA. Despite having had different Mothers, he and Nero were brothers by blood. The same woman had provided her ova for each of them, though they had been combined with the cells of two different men. No Mother ever gave birth more than once. Something always happened to prevent it. His own Mother had died, as had Rosso’s. Nero’s Mother might have lived- might yet be alive- but there was no way to truly know. She’d been engulfed by shadow and disappeared the moment he’d left her womb. 

Looking at the woman that had been provided, Weiss couldn’t help rethinking things. The Mothers never spoke, though their lips sometimes moved as if they were trying to speak and couldn’t. Most of them didn’t even move. They just lay there on a mattress wide enough for two people, wrists chained to the bedposts, staring at the ceiling. A few had chanced a glance at him and then screwed their eyes shut, as if waiting for him to run them through with his gunblades and not his body. Maybe two had actually responded to him in any way besides indifference or dread, lifting their hips to meet him. Rosso had done that the last time. Like the Mothers, she usually suffered him in silence, patiently waiting for it to be over. She hadn’t seemed to _dislike_ it. Indeed, she’d tell him where to stick it if she didn’t feel like indulging him. If such was the case, he usually wound up dealing with it himself. But she’d liked it the last time. _Really_ liked it, and it was difficult to put it out of his head. The memory had been playing in the back of his mind ever since; not because it had been nice for him, but because it had been nice for her. Rosso couldn’t feel pain, barely felt physical sensation at all. Was that what it was like for the Mothers?

The woman on the mattress was unremarkable. Fair skin, dark hair, blank brown eyes staring emptily up at the ceiling. There wasn’t much to her. She was short and thin. Lying there naked, she mostly just looked cold. Normally, knowing that his turn was coming up was enough to prepare him. Ordinarily, he’d get right to business but… Rather than undress, Weiss went around and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching, he rested a hand on the woman’s leg, just above her knee. Surprisingly, she turned her head and looked at him. He could feel her pulse quicken, her muscles contract. Her jaw worked noiselessly and tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. Weiss swallowed thickly as realization dawned: she was afraid of him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her softly. She didn’t look as if she believed him.

“My name is Weiss. Do you have a name?”

She just looked at him, the pounding of her heart almost visible beneath her ribs. Although her mouth moved, no sound came out. The tears slid from her eyes down the sides of her face. Unthinking, he reached and wiped them away with his thumb. For a moment, he could have sworn the rapid beating of her heart had stopped.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated. This time, she nodded. “I’m going to call you ‘Jane’, okay?” All the female SOLDIERs were JANE (Jenova Augmented Natal Exemptions) just as all males were JOE (Jenova Operative Elite). With any luck, she’d survive the birth and become one after this.

She nodded again and he smiled for her. She did not smile back, but he watched the terror in her eyes fade slightly.

“You’re cold,” he observed, sliding his hand down a leg prickled with gooseflesh. “I’m always too warm. Here.”

She was planted dead center, but it wasn’t hard to scoot her over without pulling on her restraints too much. Rosso and Nero always slept on either side of him, basking in his heat. He didn’t think they’d mind too much if he shared. The woman inhaled sharply as he curled himself around her. It took a couple minutes, but she finally relaxed and huddled close, glad of his warmth.

Up close, he could see the faint smatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the lighter flecks of gold in her brown eyes. There was also a tattoo of some kind on the side of her neck; a bar of straight lines that varied in width. The restraints had left bruises on her wrists, layers of them; red overlying purple and green. Rosso would have thought they were pretty. She loved colors.

Jane had tucked herself as close as she could, her body curving into his. Her breathing had evened, and her heartbeat no longer felt so urgent.

“Better?” he asked. She nodded. “Good.”

Just to be certain, he smoothed a hand down her side, tracing the concave swoop of her waist, up and over the curve of her hip. She tensed again at that, pressing closer, apparently trying to hide beneath him.

“I thought you weren’t cold?” he asked, teasing. He thought he felt her smile into his neck. Weiss smiled himself. That was more than most of them had ever done. It was an honor to be a Mother, to bring about strong, perfect people like himself. He wondered, though, if the Mothers thought of it that way? Up until now, he’d assumed they were flesh machines like the Restrictors, only there to perform a function and little more. Jane wasn’t Rosso. In every possible way she was not Rosso, but they were both women. He could start with that.

He smoothed his hand up and down her side a few times where her skin still felt cool. She tried to huddle closer, but the restraints held fast. Looking up, Weiss noticed blood trickling from one wrist. Really, what was the point of cuffing her to the bed? It wasn’t as if she could hurt him even if she tried. Reaching, he grabbed the chain and yanked. The headboard groaned in protest before the link snapped, the pieces pinging off the wall and ceiling. Jane looked at him, eyes wide and fearful.

“It’s okay,” he told her, snapping the second restraint. Tucking her arms to her chest, she just stared at him. Fear had faded to confusion. Weiss did not offer any explanation, only pulled her close, her forearms making an icy “X” against his chest. He started slightly as she touched her lips to his cheek. Weiss patted her back and touched his cheek to hers, assuming that the angle had been too awkward for her to perform the gesture properly.

“You’re welcome.”

Jane smiled, but the expression seemed wrong somehow. Was it possible to smile and still be sad? Her lips curved up, but she didn’t seem happy. Weiss smiled for her and some of the sadness vanished. Smoothing his hand over her skin, he let it travel a bit lower. Jane inhaled sharply and pinched her legs together.

“It’s alright,” Weiss assured her. Jane looked at him pleadingly, closing her eyes on more tears at his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “did that hurt?”

She broke down at that, hiding her face in his throat and latching onto him with both arms. It was Weiss’ turn to freeze, to stare blankly in confusion.

“Jane…” he stammered, awkwardly folding his arms around her the way she’d thrown hers around him. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry…”

Not knowing what else to do, he let her cling to him until she had quieted. Determined to get this right, Weiss tried again, stroking her skin until her legs parted on their own.

“Is that okay?” he asked. Jane shivered, her arms tightening around his neck. Wishing he had a better idea of what he was doing, he did his best to be careful, to be gentle. She wasn’t Rosso. It would be far easier to cause her pain and he didn’t want that. He must have done something right, for after a minute Jane pushed against his hand, her breath hitching in her throat.

“There it is,” he rumbled into her hair, pleased. “Is that okay?”

For her part, Jane did not answer, but simply held on. As near as Weiss could tell, she was enjoying this. If Rosso was anything to go by, Jane was probably wishing he’d get on with it. She seemed disappointed when he withdrew his hand, which was encouraging. Some of the fear returned to her eyes as he disentangled himself and climbed over her.

“It’s okay,” he told her again. “Really.” Taking one of her hands, he wrapped the little fingers around his forearm and briefly squeezed. “You tell me if I hurt you.”

For a long moment she just stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Eventually, she nodded.

He did his best to start small, to go slow until he could tell if he was hurting her or not. It was probably reflex, but no sooner had he pushed in than she dug her nails into his arm. At once he backed off, which seemed to surprise her.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Lemme try that again.”

Again she stared at him as if he were crazy, then arched her back, her chin tilting up toward the ceiling. Weiss grinned, knowing he’d gotten it right that time. He waited until she began to lift her hips to meet him before falling back on old habits. It wasn’t easy to remember to be careful, to be mindful of how Jane felt. Rosso would have smacked him upside the head, or just shouted, but Jane couldn’t do either. So far, however, she seemed to be okay. He missed the pretty sounds that Rosso made, but even silent, Jane seemed happy. He almost missed the squeak that left her throat; coming as it did a half-breath before he saw stars himself. It took him a minute to return to earth after that. Jane was tugging at his arm. Bemused, he let her pull him up little by little like a rope until they lay side by side again. She turned and cupped his face in both her hands. Her expression was impossible to read. Although tears streamed down her cheeks, she didn’t seem to be unhappy or in pain. Tilting her head, she pressed her lips against his. Weiss blinked, instinctively shying back.

“What was that?” he asked, bewildered. Now she did look sad, but not in the same way she had before. Tilting his head down a little, she touched her lips to his forehead, and again to his cheek.

“Are you trying to say ‘thank you’?”

She smiled at that; another sad smile that somehow also seemed kind. Tilting her head, she pulled him toward her again, but this time he was ready. Jane pressed her lips against his. Weiss held still and let her do this. She did it a second time, then a third. When she brought her lips to his again, this time, he tried to copy her. He could feel the smile pass from her mouth to his. She tasted like toothpaste, but that mattered less than heat flooding his face and spreading throughout the rest of him.

Needing to breathe, he pulled back. It wasn’t easy swallowing down the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat. Jane’s smile was real this time. Afraid to let it show, she hid her face in his throat. Not knowing what else to do, Weiss snugged his arms around her, one hand stroking her hair.

“You’re welcome.”


	40. Wander No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pallet cleanser after the last chapter. :P
> 
> In which our heroes meet up with some old friends.

Sephiroth only knew he’d slept because he had to open his eyes. He didn’t get tired the way other men did, but that didn’t mean he didn’t get tired _at all_. Fighting in a melee style battle for hours on end would exhaust anyone. According to Strife, Azul was still sitting quietly in the coal shed without any restraints. So far no scuffles had broken out between the Shinra and Avalanche troops- apparently the battle had been a marvelous team-building exercise- and the Turks were in the process of dealing with the Deepground casualties.

“No survivors that they could find,” Strife told him, doing his best to look anywhere but at his commanding officer. “But the bodies haven’t disintegrated yet.”

“Probably all the Jenova,” Sephiroth replied distractedly, hurrying through his morning routine. Personally, he didn’t care if the boy looked or not so long as he didn’t stare. “Has anyone seen or heard anything about Colonel Rhapsodos?”

Strife shook his head head. “No, Sir. Colonel Fair sent out a couple of men to look for him, but they haven’t found anything.”

“So you did see him?” Sephiroth asked, turning to face the boy. “I didn’t imagine it.”

“Saw a lot of things yesterday, Sir,” Strife shrugged. “It sure looked like him. I hope it was. And I hope we find him.”

Sephiroth allowed himself a smile and shrugged into his coat. “Me too.”

\--

“Who’s coming and who’s going?” Commander Verdot asked him after breakfast. Although he’d thought about it, Sephiroth still hadn’t come to a solid decision. He would go to the prison himself, there was no question about that, as would Azul and Commander Verdot. They needed to illustrate to all and sundry that they were on the same side now- whatever side that was. At least one of the Turks ought to come along, and of course an Avalanche member for each Shinra. It was only fair. However, he didn’t want to leave Corel undefended. Of course the bulk of the troops would remain here, but who would oversee them? To put it simply, he just didn’t have enough officers to go around. 

“You’re coming, I hope?” he asked her to start. She seemed surprised at this but noded.

“Of course. If the prisoners aren’t wild about fighting for Shinra, maybe they’ll want to fight for Avalanche.” She gave him a sidelong smile and he returned it.

“Do you have someone you can leave in charge?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Shears can keep everyone in line and Fuhito will help him. You?”

“I’m still working on it,” he admitted. “I should probably leave Fair here, as well as the other Firsts.”

“But you’d rather he came with us?”

“I don’t like going into a situation alone.”

“Well, it’s probably not a consolation, but I’ll be there, and so will the ex-Deepground officer penned up in the coal shed.”

She had her father’s sense of humor. Sephiroth couldn’t help but smirk at her remark.

“Good thing I plan on bringing Vincent along to represent the Turks.”

“And to pull rank on Azul if he tries something,” Commander Verdot added as if reading his thoughts. “Smart. Not that you couldn’t take him down yourself.”

“I believe you could as well,” Sephiroth replied, eyeing her right arm which she seemed to be favoring.

“Maybe,” she agreed, amused.

In the end he did decide to bring Zack, and Cloud too. Colonel Knightblade agreed to take charge in their absence, the handful of Lieutenants that remained agreeing to the decision. Commander Verdot brought four of her own men, and though they were not official Turks, Vincent and Veld came along as well.

“I’ll handle things here, don’t worry,” Rufus had assured them. “Everybody in that internment camp goes free. _Everyone._ Veld, I want the paperwork on everyone else that’s incarcerated. I want to make sure that we’re not just tearing down the gates. If there are people who are innocent, I want them freed. However, if there are people who ought to be behind bars, then they should stay there.”

Veld nodded as if he’d never taken off the uniform. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll alert you if anything happens,” Tseng promised.

“Understood,” Sephiroth agreed.

\--

It felt like disaster turning his back on the mountain village, as if he were abandoning his men, or walking into a trap. Sephiroth’s one consolation was that it was only a little more than a day’s journey to the prison. It would not take them long to get there, recruit the soldiers they needed, liberate anyone who ought not to be imprisoned, and return. He hoped.

It was not a difficult journey; the prison lay directly south of Corel. The march would be simple and straight-forward, a direct line from point A to point B. Yet Sephiroth could not shake the feeling that their small party was being watched, being followed. They passed the last of the foothills around noon, the sun setting over the grass-covered flatlands staining everyone’s vision red and orange. Perhaps it was his imagination, or a trick of the light, but he thought he saw figures approaching through the glare. Raising his arm to signal a halt, he squinted through the fiery light. Despite the stab of the sun’s rays, he felt his eyes go wide.

“Genesis!”

Zack had spoken, confirming what Sephiroth was sure he had imagined: Genesis Rhapsodos and the remains of his platoon of copies, each ready with sword in hand, stood blocking their way. He looked awful, and not just because his uniform was stained and torn. Although two years younger, Genesis no longer looked twenty-three. His handsome face had become drawn and wan; too many silver threads ran through his auburn hair. A single wing of coal black feathers protruded from his left shoulder, the weight forcing him to stand slightly off-center.

“We thought you dead…” Sephiroth told him honestly. Genesis sneered.

“ _My soul corrupted by vengeance hath endured torment,_ ” Genesis began, reciting the familiar lines. “ _To find the end of the journey in mine own salvation, And your eternal slumber._ ”

“Genesis…”

“ _No!_ ” The younger man snapped. “You are not the only hero in this story!”

Anger flared inside him suddenly, white and hot. Sephiroth felt his hands curl into angry fists. Dammit, he’d had more than enough of this.

“You want to be the hero?”

Genesis just looked at him.

Raising Masamune, Sephiroth plunged her into the ground and stepped back.

“I did not ask for this,” Sephiroth told him. “I don’t want to be the hero and I’m not going to fight you.”

“Coward!” Genesis shouted, lunging at him. Sephiroth did not even flinch. He stood there, braced, barely wincing as Genesis’ burning blade slashed at him. Vincent caught Zack by one arm, holding him back as he tried to rush to his General’s aid. Opening his mouth to protest, he fell silent as Vincent shook his head. The blow had been half-hearted, the swing shortened by hesitation. A thin slash of blood was beading up from the general’s skin, as if someone had painted a red line across his chest.

“If you need my blood, Genesis, then take it,” Sephiroth told him quietly. “All you had to do was ask.”

Genesis’ sword hand shook, so hard did it grip the blade, his single wing bristling with...anger? Hurt? Resentment? It was impossible to tell.

“Do you remember when you were hurt in the training simulator?”

Genesis raised his sword, heatless flame licking up the blade. “How could I forget? That’s what got me into this fix in the first place.”

“I wanted to give you my blood,” Sephiroth told him. “Hollander said I was not compatible. He chose Angeal instead.”

“He was my brother,” Genesis said quietly, lowering his weapon. “Well, half-brother; both of us were bred for slaughter. Angeal chose death rather than suffer, rather than fight. Hollander told me he had a cure, that he could heal this wound but...”

“He deceived you,” Sephiroth finished. “He deceived all of us.”

For a long moment Genesis just stood there, staring at the ground. Zack fingered the pommel of his Buster sword, but Vincent kept one hand on his shoulder. A good thing, too. Suddenly Genesis gave a savage cry, rushed forward…

...and plunged his blade into the earth beside Masamune.

Staggering the last few steps, Genesis collapsed against the Sephiroth, throwing both arms around him. Sephiroth stumbled slightly under Genesis’ weight, caught between shock and relief. He had only half-believed his gambit would work, but this time he did not balk or hesitate. Wrapping both arms around his friend, he hugged him close.

“...I’m sorry.” Genesis’ words were low and muffled by the collar of Sephiroth’s coat. Patting his undamaged shoulder, Sephiroth gently pushed him back enough to look him in the eye, one hand on each shoulder. He could feel the bandages shielding the old wound beneath the red coat.

“It’s not an easy thing to learn you’re a monster,” Sephiroth told him. “Harder still to learn that not all monsters are senseless beasts. We are monsters, you and I, but that does not mean that we do not think or feel. We are not heartless or soulless. We may be monsters, Genesis, but we are still men.”

The glance back at Vincent was brief, almost unremarkable, but Zack noted it and smiled. Behind his collar, he was pretty sure Vincent was smiling too.

\--

Although it would lengthen their journey, no one objected when Sephiroth called a halt to make camp. The walk the following morning would be shorter, and no one was sure how long it would take to sort things out at the prison. The few men Genesis had with him were nearly as bedraggled as their leader. A few were wounded, though not too badly. Genesis himself seemed the worst off, though he did his best to shrug off his own discomfort. Although he refused treatment for himself, Genesis did not protest when Sephiroth pulled him aside to sit near the campfire.

“Where have you been?” Sephiroth began by asking the obvious question first. “Zack said he saw you fall from the edge of the platform. Surely you can’t fly with just one wing?”

Genesis’ smile was twisted, a less grotesque version of the one Vincent sometimes wore. “I can’t fly, no, but it did slow my fall. With Hollander dead, I struck out on my own. I read all of his files, and tried to read some others that he’d mentioned, but you’d already beat me to them.”

“Files?” Sephiroth echoed. “What files?”

“The files concerning Jenova Project.”

Sephiroth had to remember to breathe in, his insides having suddenly frozen.

“Angeal and I, we both carry Jenova’s cells,” Genesis went on. “Hollander theorized that more Jenova might stabilize my condition, reverse the damage. However, when I got to Nibelheim, all I found was a pile of rubble where the Shinra mansion had once been.”

“Yes, that was our doing,” Sephiroth admitted, rubbing at the hot prickles that had risen at the back of his neck. “It was an accident.”

“Do you still have the journals?” Genesis asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Sephiroth said slowly, “but I’ve read them. I don’t think they’d be much help. Honestly...the last thing any of us needs is more Jenova.”

Genesis looked as him as if he’d been struck in the face. “Why do you say that?! If there’s a chance it’ll work, I want to take it!”

“I want to help you, believe me,” Sephiroth told him as earnestly as he knew how. “When you disappeared I thought I’d lost the only other friend I’d ever had. I’m glad you’re back. So glad. But Jenova won’t help you, she’ll only make things worse.”

“How do you know?” Genesis demanded.

“Haven’t you ever heard her singing in the back of your head, behind your thoughts, beneath your dreams? Like someone looking over your shoulder, only when you turn to look, there’s no one there.”

Genesis had gone very quiet.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you,” Sephiroth went on. “Sometimes...she’ll put ideas in your head. They aren’t good ideas, either. Ideas like abandoning your post; attempting to hurt your friends.”

Unable to hold his gaze, Genesis looked away, contemplating the grass between his feet. Miserably, he nodded.

“I thought… I thought she was the voice of the Goddess… I know it sounds insane but…”

Reaching, Sephiroth carefully laid a hand on his shoulder. “No it doesn’t. I hear her too, only...I thought it was the voice of my mother.”

That made him look up. “Seriously?”

Sephiroth nodded, looking at the fire rather than his friend, hoping the red light of the flames would hide the heat in his face. “I know it sounds foolish, but…”

“ _My friend, the Fates are cruel. There are no dreams. No honor remains._ ” The lines were familiar, but the inflection was not. Had he not known better, Sephiroth would have assumed Genesis was simply making an observation and not quoting from his beloved play.

“I didn’t kill my parents, you know,” Genesis said after a moment’s silence. “It was one of my men. He didn’t know who they were… They got in the way…” He swallowed hard and turned to look at his friend. “It was an accident, Sephiroth. I never wanted them to die. I never meant for any of this to happen…”

Stretching a bit, Sephiroth gripped Genesis’ far shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Genesis leaned into it gladly.

“I know you didn’t. If I hadn’t...” he trailed off, looking across the low fire. Genesis’ men were chatting companionably with the Avalanche and Shinra troops. Zack seemed to be in the middle of relating some sort of adventurous exploit to Cloud, who was hanging on his every word. Veld and Elfe were talking quietly with their heads together, which left Vincent sitting slightly apart from everyone else. A man out of place, out of Time. What would have happened if he had not found Vincent before he’d come across the journals? It could have been him who’d been driven mad by Jenova. Not just Banora but Nibelheim as well might have been reduced to a smoldering ruin. How long would Vincent have lain trapped in the dark? Would someone else- Genesis perhaps- have stumbled upon him and set him free, or would he have ridden the Night Mare to exhaustion, until the makou in his system finally dried up and there was no reason to lift the lid of his coffin? A shudder rippled through him at the thought. And what of Zack? What of Cloud? Tifa? Aeris? Veld, Elfe, Tseng, Rufus...the names were too many to count.

“Are you alright?” Genesis asked, startling him out of the unsettling thoughts.

“Fine,” Sephiroth replied somewhat breathlessly. Genesis did not look as if he believed this, but did not press the matter.

“What about you?” he asked. “I was under the impression I’d been presumed dead and that Shinra had you busy with other things. Since you’re keeping company with Avalanche, I take it you came to a similar conclusion?”

“Something like that...”

It was not easy to relate what had happened in Nibelheim; how they’d found Vincent trapped in the crypt, the journals, and what Sephiroth had learned about his own origins. To a small degree he had been prepared for such a revelation in a way Angeal and Genesis had not: Sephiroth had grown up in the Shinra science department. He had known that he was not like other children, that he was different. Just _how_ different he had not learned until recently. Angeal and Genesis, it turned out, had also been different, though he could not decide if the knowledge was comforting, or just sad. Sephiroth had never known his parents- was still not convinced of his true paternity- but Angeal and Genesis had. They had grown up in loving families. The discovery that they were creatures of science, and not of love, had therefore come as a more vicious slap in the face than it had to him. Indeed, the experience had been somewhat inverted on Sephiroth’s part. He had been half convinced that he had been built or grown within one of Shinra’s many laboratories; to discover that he had once had real human parents brought a pain and a sadness he had not been prepared for. Jenova, by contrast, had been somewhat less of a surprise.

After Vincent, after Nibelheim, after facing her himself, it was easier to believe that Jenova was not his mother but an invasive alien creature. Genesis, to his credit, did not argue the point, but listened as Sephiroth explained about the Cetra, and what Shinra had hoped to accomplish by breeding children carrying Jenova’s cells. No one, apparently, had heard the voice of the Planet; not himself, nor Angeal, nor Genesis. An attempt to recreate the past had mutated into the quest for the perfect soldier, and now the bulk of the Shinra military carried some trace of Jenova in their blood.

“I feel like I ought to be shocked, but I’m not,” Genesis said at last. “Some of it I knew, other parts I guessed… How could they do that to us? To everyone?”

“I should have gone with you,” Sephiroth said miserably. “With both of you. I should not have stayed behind. In the back of my head, I had suspected, but I didn’t _know_.”

“Well, you grew up knowing you were an experiment,” Genesis commented. Sephiroth shot him a dirty look.

“I knew I was different,” he snapped. “I didn’t know I was Hojo’s bloody lab rat!”

“I wasn’t exactly thrilled to discover the people I thought were my mother and father were actually Foster parents,” Genesis shot back. “Though I guess it’s not all bad. I gained a brother.”

 _Just in time to lose him_ , Sephiroth thought, regretting losing his temper.

“...I’m sorry,” Genesis said quietly, beating him to it.

“I apologize as well.”

Genesis gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Angeal’s mother was a nice woman. Very kind. I’m not sorry that she’s my biological mother. She won’t replace my own mother, of course. I’ll always think of Mrs. Hewley as ‘Aunt Gill’, but it’s nice to know we were actually related.”

Sephiroth nodded quietly. “Do you know who your father was?”

Genesis shook his head. “So far as I’m concerned, Uriah Rhapsodos _is_ my father. The reports didn’t say, and I’ve decided I don’t care.”

Sephiroth blinked at that. “Really?”

“Really,” Genesis confirmed. “For all I know it could be Hollander- gods forbid- but I doubt it. My father was the man who brought me up, who taught me how to read, how to handle a sword. My father was the man who loved me. The rest doesn’t matter.”

Sephiroth nodded quietly, not sure what to say. Instead, he found himself looking across the fire again to the tall man sitting by himself, eyes softly glowing as red as the flames. Curious, Genesis looked over as well.

“And what about you? Do you know who you belong to?”

“Mostly. I know my mother was a woman named Lucrecia, and that I was an accident.”

It took Genesis a moment to find his voice after that remark. “...and your father?”

Sephiroth shrugged, still looking at Vincent. The older man had not looked up, but continued to stare meditatively into the fire. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not him, is it?” Genesis asked, squinting through the flames.

“He says not.”

Vincent had insisted repeatedly that nothing had happened between himself and Lucrecia, but Sephiroth did not want to believe it. _Couldn’t_ believe it. His mother was dead, and therefore exempt from judgement. Professor Hojo, however, had trained him practically from birth to be a SOLDIER, a living weapon. He might have educated and reared him to adulthood, but there had been no love behind it. In the few short months since they’d resurrected Vincent, the Turk had shown a type of paternal affection toward him that Sephiroth had almost forgotten. Not since Professor Gast had a grownup favored him with such attention. He would much rather have been the bastard whelp of Vincent Valentine than the true born son of Professor Hojo.

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t want to.”


	41. Don't Fence Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logistics are a pain.

A desert prison and an internment camp. Sephiroth wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting. Somehow, it wasn’t this. The enormous pole that held the Gold Saucer above the heat of the sand reminded him a bit of the columns that held up the Plate in Midgar; the ramshackle buildings clustered around it the slums. There was a small island of solid ground in the middle of the vast basin of sand, and it was on this that the camp and prison had been built. There was hardly need for the surrounding razor wire fence, no one could hope to cross the shifting sands on foot. A small guard shack with a couple of bored-looking infantrymen and a stable full of chocobos sat at the edge of the desert, opposite the distant entrance to the camp. The guards exchanged confused looks, as if a mirage were approaching from the wrong landscape; out of the waving grass of the plain and not the heat shimmer of the desert.

“General Sephiroth?” one of them asked, offering a bewildered salute. “Is it true, Sir?”

“Is what true?”

“That you’ve defected, Sir. That you’re out to destroy Shinra?” The guard, fingers still poised at his temple, took in the rest of the motley group nervously: the leader of Avalanche, Colonel Genesis apparently alive if not well, and a couple of equally undead Turks, to say nothing of their associated infantry. Indeed, the party Sephiroth had assembled was composed almost entirely of ghosts.

“Nonsense,” Sephiroth assured him. “I haven’t defected, I simply answer to the younger Shinra and not the elder.”

“Sir…” was the guard’s nonplussed response.

“How many carriages do you keep here?”

“We got five, Sir, though only three of ‘em work right now.”

“Repair them,” Sephiroth commanded, “and ready the other three. We will be going across to the prison. It’s come to my attention that there are a number of people behind bars here who should not be. President Shinra has authorized their release. I know I can rely on all of you to assist me in this?” It was not really a question, but he let them think they had an option. Happily, the guards nodded, apparently deciding the immediate threat was more important than the distant. “Excellent. Colonel Rhapsodos and his men will stay here to assist in the repairs and to ensure the prisoner release goes smoothly.”

“Yessir,” the guard said, smiling at last, and went to ready the carriages.

\--

Although the stretch of sand seemed infinite, the ride was not long, perhaps no more than ten minutes. The chocobos pulling the cart were only of middling quality, but were sure-footed and just swift enough to keep the wide wheels from becoming mired in the loose sand. Upon closer inspection, the buildings were not as humble as he’d thought. They were drab, minimalist, institutional, but not the patched-together hovels they had seemed to be. Such buildings did exist, but they were down on a lower level of the mesa in the prison proper. The internment camp must have been the prison originally. The political prisoners had taken over the cinderblock buildings, and those who had committed greater sins had been expelled to a deeper circle of hell. Everyone- guards and inmates alike- stood and stared as he entered with Elfe on his right, Vincent on his left, and Zack and the others close behind.

“General,” one of the guards saluted and stood uncertainly at attention. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“We’re dead,” one of the inmates muttered. “He’s here to slaughter us.”

“President Rufus Shinra is dissolving this institution,” Sephiroth announced. “I am here to see that the internment camp is emptied and that everyone currently being held here returns to their homes. Once this is accomplished, you and your men will be joining me in Corel.”

The guard blinked, but saluted. “Yessir.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to interview some of the detainees.”

“Of course, Sir. I’ll begin preparations for evacuation.”

“Thank you.”

Returning salute, Sephiroth watched as the guard hurried off. The inmates were still crowded around, looking at him. They were a sorry mix of men and women, many of them had graying hair or were impaired in some way. There were a handful of children and young adults, but again, most were either babes in arms, or older but with some sort of physical handicap. As one they drew back as a long shadow fell over Sephiroth from behind. Turning, he noted Azul- who, due to his size, had merited a carriage all his own- strode into the camp.

Frightened murmurs flitted from prisoner to prisoner, their fear evident by the rise of their whispers.

“It’s him, the giant…”

“They’re gonna lead us out to the desert and kill us. No evidence that way.”

“Hell they’re just gonna shoot us here. Why bother with all that?”

Turning to Sephiroth, Azul made a slightly too-deliberate salute. “Sir.”

The whispers did not lessen, but the sharp notes of fear tilted slightly into softer noises of confusion. Perhaps it was time to explain himself.

“I am General Sephiroth,” Sephiroth began, reaching deep so that his voice would carry. “I see you recognize Azul. You may also know Commander Verdot of Avalanche. You will have discerned that Agents Verdot and Valentine are Turks, though you may not have known their names. Please know that we are here to make amends for what happened to you. President Rufus Shinra has personally charged me with shutting down this internment camp. That means returning you to your homes and families, and supplying you with whatever you may need.”

He paused for a moment to let the pronouncement sink in. Those gathered simply stared, wondering if they dared believe his words were true.

“What about him?” a grizzled old-timer asked, pointing an accusing finger at Azul. “The hell’s he doin’ here if not to steal our women and children?”

Sephiroth blinked at that, and turned to Azul with a questioning look. The giant grimaced and contemplated the ground for a long moment before speaking himself.

“I ain’t here to steal nobody away,” he declared, a hard edge to his voice. “I’m here to put an end to that. The General defeated me in battle, and I surrendered. He’s tellin’ the truth. We’re here to send everybody home. Deepground’s not comin’ here ever again.”

Strangely, the prisoners seemed to put more stock in Azul’s rough speech than they had in his.

“Old Man Shinra’s turned on his son,” Elfe spoke up, stepping forward to stand even with Sephiroth and Azul. “He would have turned the army on innocent people if Sephiroth hadn’t acted first. Fin Shinra would have crushed Corel if they didn’t agree to a makou reactor, but Sephiroth defended its people with our help. Avalanche fighting alongside Shinra,” she grinned. “Who would’ve ever thought?”

There were smiles and a few nervous laughs at this.

“I can’t do this alone,” Sephiroth went on. “We’re going to need more help if we’re to beat Old Man Shinra at his own game.”

One of the few young women present stepped forward. An artificial left arm had excluded her from being selected for Deepground’s legions. However, it was her carrot-red hair and thick glasses that marked her visually.

“Have you seen my sister?” she asked Azul without preamble. Azul just looked at her.

“Her name is Shelke, she’d be about twelve now,” the girl went on. “Short, skinny, blue eyes, mouse-brown hair down to her shoulders. Is she alive? Have you seen her?”

Azul shook his great head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Don’t think I have.”

“They took her four years ago,” she said, turning to implore Sephiroth. She’s just a kid! She shouldn’t be there! Please you have to get her out!”

“We’ll find her,” Sephiroth vowed. “I promise. We’ll set everyone free.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Without pausing, he nodded. “What can you do?”

“I’m a good shot with my right hand, and I’m apprenticed as a nurse. I want to be a doctor if I ever-” here she stopped and corrected herself, “after I get out of here.”

The smile he gave her happened on its own, and she returned it. “What’s your name?”

“Shalua Rui.”

“Azul, Commander Verdot, take Rui and any other volunteers and help the civilians get organized. The Turks and I will examine the prison records in the meantime. Be as quick as you can.”

“Sir,” Azul saluted and turned to do as instructed.

 

\--

 

To Sephiroth’s surprise and gratification, after Shalua had stepped forward, every last detainee had volunteered. Whether or not they could fight was beside the point. They wanted to help, and battles were not won with swords alone. There were still more willing conscripts from the prison proper. Judging from what paperwork there was- the office looked as if a tornado had gone through, followed by a dump truck bearing the contents of a landfill- a high percentage of the population did not deserve to be behind bars. Even if they did, the non-violent offenders had more than served their time.

“Gonna take more than a few days to sort out this mess,” Veld commented whilst digging through the avalanche of documents. It was hard to tell if the chaos was due to excessive slovenliness, or a deliberate attempt to bury the facts. Probably both.

“Call Tseng,” Sephiroth ordered. “Have him send a couple of Turks and some infantry down to help make sense of this mess. It’s going to have to be done at some point.” This wasn’t the sort of thing that ought to be done in a rush, but they didn’t have the time to devote to it. Getting everyone out was more important than resurrecting documents that bore false charges.

Things were a bit more organized in the intern camp, primarily because the interns had been made to keep after things themselves. Although old and sparsely furnished, the buildings were neat and clean. There was a clinic, a mess hall, and a sort of assembly hall that appeared to double as a school, though there were few children. Despite some measure of order, it was still going to take time- much more time than they had- to get the volunteer army back to Corel. As for those liberated, they would likely have to come along too. They couldn’t very well stay here. Word would get back to Midgar and President Shinra Sr. would no doubt send one of Azul’s cubs and another thousand or so Deepground troops. Such an onslaught after a victory so narrow and so recent would be too much. No, they would have to get everyone evacuated as soon as possible and damn the paperwork.

“Where are we?” he asked Elfe, who was engaged in helping to pack up some medical supplies.

“Good news is they’ve got a decent stock of supplies,” she informed him, “so they won’t be too great a burden on Corel as far as resources go. We’ll just have to figure out where to put them once they get there. The bad news is that it’s going to take too long to get them all out at once. Is there any way we can speed this up? Maybe radio for extra help? Geographically speaking, the trip isn’t _that_ far, it’s just getting everyone across the damn desert.”

Was there a way? Sephiroth directed his gaze at the hard-packed earth of the camp’s main thoroughfare. Genesis and his men still guarded the entrance. Procedure dictated that civilians be evacuated first. If he could give them a head start and send them on their way with Genesis and another officer- perhaps Commander Verdot?- as a guide, the volunteers could finish packing and bring along anything the detainees had left behind.

“Get a group together to leave tomorrow morning if possible, tomorrow afternoon at the latest. You and Genesis can take them to Corel. The rest of us will finish up here and follow as quickly as we can.”

She considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Sounds good.


	42. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent's participation in the Sephiroth Project is expanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for violence, invasions of personal space, and general creepin'.

_  
The Anger was still there, but it had retreated so far that he almost didn’t feel it. All he felt at the moment was pain, deep pain. It wasn’t his, but he still felt it. There was another being here, another consciousness besides himself. Approaching it carefully, he tried to get a sense of what it was. It did not feel like the Anger, nor did it feel like anything human. There was danger there, but not the kind the Anger radiated. Hesitantly, he reached to touch it._

_The Pain snapped at him, jaws locking over thin air as he jerked his hand away. The Pain growled and snarled at him, the scent of spilled blood behind it._

_‘Easy,’ Vincent told it. The Pain barked at him, the noise trailing off into a whine. The thing was not Pain itself, it was IN pain. He had no materia, no potions, not even a cloth to staunch the bleeding. All he did have was his own strength, such as it was. Taking a deep breath, he extended his hand again. The thing growled, but there was less force behind it._

_‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he told it. Crouching down, he held very still. He started as something cold and wet snuffed at his fingers. The thing whined again, and Vincent felt soft, shaggy fur as the thing lifted its snout against his hand._

_‘Can you move?’_

_It whined again, the sound piercing, almost too high to register in a human ear. Carefully, Vincent edged closer, searching for the wound in its great body. The thing was canine; huge and deep blue, with a scarlet mane and long horns protruding from its brow._

_‘Do you have a name?’ he asked it, not truly expecting an answer._

_‘Galllllian,’ the creature rumbled. ‘Galllllian beast.’_

_‘Gallian,” Vincent echoed. ‘I’m Vincent. There’s somebody else in here but...I don’t know who he is. I just try to keep out of his way.’_

_Gallin just looked at him, the beast’s great muscles shivering when Vincent touched a wound._

_‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I don’t know if this will work but...’_

_Gathering what strength he had, Vincent pushed, willing it down his arm, through his hand and into the beast’s body. Gallian whimpered and Vincent pressed close, hugging the creature as best he could, the wide shoulders much too large to reach around. He poured what warmth and energy he could into the huge, furry body. It did not take long for him to feel cold and light-headed and he slumped to the floor, exhausted. For several minutes he lay there shivering, feeling as if he might dissolve into dust and blow away at any moment. He started as a cold, wet snout pushed its way under his chin, and a huge furry body curled itself around him._

_‘Thankyou,’ Gallian whuffed._

_Reaching around, Vincent scratched the beast’s thick scruff in return and promptly fell dead asleep._

_\--_

_Everything hurt, everything was cold, but...it was bearable this time. Shivering, Vincent curled up tighter where he lay. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, but his left arm did not want to listen. He must have lain on it long enough for it to have fallen asleep. It certainly felt like it._

_A metallic click, an electronic hiss, and a fresh wave of even colder air washed over him. Trying to huddle into an even smaller ball, he shied away from the bright light that had accompanied the cooler air._

_“Oh good, you’re alive.”_

_The voice was not immediately familiar. Reluctantly, Vincent dragged his eyes open and looked up. He had to blink several times before he managed to focus on the face. Dark hair, small, round glasses, hazel eyes, a white coat._

_“...Hojo?” Vincent rasped, confused._

_“You’ve made a beautiful mess of things,” Hojo told him, grabbing a blanket from the nearby bunk and tossing it over him. Vincent grabbed the edges- or tried to, his left arm would not obey- and shrugged the coarse fabric tight around his shoulders. No wonder he’d been so cold. He wasn’t wearing anything._

_“What…” he tried again but wound up coughing. This triggered a pain in his chest so severe it left him gasping._

_“Glorious violence is not an end unto itself,” was Hojo’s cryptic response as he set a pair of scrubs down on the cot. “Here. Get dressed. No one wants to look at your skinny ass.”_

_Cold and bewildered, Vincent did as he was told._

_\--_

_There had been a number of extremely interesting observations to make about the Turk while he recovered from his most recent death. For one, he had no pulse. The summon materia instead constantly circulated his blood throughout his body without the stop-and-go rhythm of a pumping heart. One might have thought this would lead to blood pressure issues and further atrophy of the heart muscle, but it had not. Hojo had not yet figured out how this was accomplished, but...all in good time. The materia had apparently lent the Turk’s body a wonderful ability to heal. Coupled with time in a makou tank, he was virtually invincible._

_The muddy stains had taken over a month to fade, the shadow of a few of the worst lesions still lingering here and there. He’d allowed the Turk time to sleep it off, to become just conscious enough to communicate. Still heavily sedated, he’d taken the loss of his arm reasonably well, nodding with almost every pronouncement. Hojo had wondered if the information was truly being processed, but it didn’t really matter._

_After the manifestation of the beast, the Turk became less agitated. One would have thought a wild thing in a small cage with no windows would have been driven half-mad by the confinement. On the contrary, the Turk seemed content to lay on the simple cot and sleep for hours on end. Perhaps the fiasco had taken more out of him than originally thought? There were actually vague marks on the Turk’s body corresponding with the beast’s injuries. Although they were little more than bruises, it was still interesting to note. Evidently the Turk and the Beast had fused successfully. Just how deeply would remain to be seen._

_Hojo kept careful note of any animal-like traits that might have popped up. Indeed, the Turk’s hearing seemed to have become significantly more sensitive, as had his nose. There did not seem to be any particular boost in strength, though thanks to Chaos he was already fairly light on his feet. At least he wasn’t trying to lift his leg on anything. He was, however, plagued by long stretches of confusion and disorientation. Perhaps it was just as well._

_\--_

_The girl came last. Well, woman really. He couldn’t help it, when she showed up, the first thing Vincent thought of was Lucy. At first he only knew her by her fear. She was hurt as well, but mostly afraid. There was sorrow too, she wouldn’t stop crying, but whenever he tried to come near her, she fled. He supposed he couldn’t really blame her._

_She made friends with Gallian first. Although he could seem frightening at first glance, he could be as gentle as he was fierce. Vincent found them both curled up together, much the way he and Gallian had when the beast had first come._

_‘Hello,’ he said gently, crouching down so that he did not tower over her quite so much. ‘What’s your name?’_

_She stopped crying only long enough to scramble back in fear. Gallian’s huge, furry body was in the way, however. Nuzzling her face with his great snout, he then nodded at Vincent._

_‘Alpha,’ the word came out in a low bark. Raising his head proudly, he barked again. ‘Beta.’ Delta- meaning Gigas- was off somewhere, as was Chaos whom Gallian had decreed as Omega. Chaos insisted that he was most certainly NOT Omega, that was his brother, but he could not change Gallian’s mind. Their amusements were too few, and this was one of them._

_‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Vinent told her quietly. ‘My name is Vincent.’_

_‘...Masuka,’ she said, voice wobbly with fear and tears. ‘Where are we?’_

_He tried not to sigh too heavily. He could give a straight answer later. At present, the truth would not help, only frighten her more._

_‘I don’t know, but no one here will hurt you, Maskha.’_

_That much was not a lie. Slowly, she nodded, evidently trying to decide if she believed him or not._

_It took her a long time to warm up to him. She liked Gallian the best, and then- strangely- Gigas. There was something in him that she recognized and usually she could be found with either him or Gallian. She did not like to be alone. Vincent tried to be courteous, to respect her need for personal space- especially considering she was the only woman among four men and personal space was at a premium._

_\--_

_At first he’d had hope. Hope that he would recover, hope that Hojo would figure out what was wrong with him. He’d apologized for the shot, for his arm, for a lot of things that Vincent did not remember. When he’d tried to ask about Lucy, Hojo had prattled on as if he hadn’t heard. The man had always loved to lecture. Vincent let him talk, the words washing over him like water._

_“It’s what Lu would want,” Hojo was saying, which managed to snag what attention Vincent had to devote to the conversation. If by ‘conversation’ one meant an exchange where Hojo spoke and Vincent nodded during the few pauses between words. Still groggy from makou and pain killer, it was difficult to focus._

_“Do you think you can do that?”_

_Do what? Vincent had missed the question. It must have shown on his face for Hojo visibly reigned in his exasperation and repeated himself._

_“Can you help me? Can you help me protect my son? Lu’s son?”_

_Hojo was making even less sense than usual. Since when did Hojo have a son? Since when did Lu? Oh wait-- she’d been expecting. Had she had the baby already? She must have had a boy, then. Surely he must still be just a little thing, probably not even old enough to crawl. Words were still pouring out of Hojo’s mouth. Maybe it was the analgesic, but Vincent swore he could see them, as if snips and clips of pages from a dictionary were spilling from the professor’s mouth._

_“_ Valentine. _”_

_The word was sharp, direct, and Vincent tried to snap to attention but his leaden body would not obey. He looked up into Hojo’s bespectacled face where a strangely earnest expression creased his features._

_“Will you help me protect her son?”_

_Stupid question, really. Of course he’d do anything for Lucy. Drunkenly, he nodded. The anxious look split into a relieved grin._

_“Good man,” Hojo said, patting him roughly on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you. Now then, we’ll need to formulate a training plan. I’ve gone over the strategy that Deepground uses and frankly, I find it a bit disturbing. That’s the sort of thing you might think about subjecting the special ops to, but not children, certainly not those young enough to be in primary school. Still, it’s them or me and I’d much rather it be me who must teach the hard lessons. Discipline in love and all of that. I’m thinking strength training to begin, Sephiroth is only five after all…”_

_The speech might as well have been the white noise of waves on the ocean for all the sense it made. Unable to follow the endless stream of words, he let it carry him away, falling asleep in the middle of the oration._

_\--_

_One of these days, Hojo decided, he should really go home to sleep. However, Sephiroth was here, and so was just about everything else. What was at home but an empty bed and some clean clothes? Maybe he should just start keeping a backup shirt and trousers in the closet meant for office supplies. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used the HAZMAT shower to freshen up. Besides, his desk chair was reasonably comfortable. Maybe just a five or ten minute nap. Just forty winks, as Gast liked to say. Damn him. If he and Ifalna were still here, he wouldn’t have this problem. With a sigh, Hojo rubbed his face with both hands beneath his glasses. Gods, he was so tired. It was too much for one person to try to do alone, but he was the only one, and so there was nothing left to do but soldier on. Five minutes. Five minutes would be plenty. Crossing his arms on his desk, Hojo laid his head down and promptly fell asleep._

_A moment later, however, he lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. Leaving his glasses on the desk, he stood and went down the hall to the area where the live specimens were kept. The one he called the Turk lay half curled on the bunk, dead to the world._

_“Professor?” It was the female red-headed servant._

_“Prep the specimen for the observation tank. See that he’s restrained.”_

_“Of course, Professor. Anything else?”_

_“No. Go home. You’ve done enough work today.”_

_“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”_

_It did not take her long to remove the Turk from his cell and place him in the observation tank. After the last few fiascos it had become policy to keep him sedated if he wasn’t already oversaturated with makou. As such, he stood dazed and silent, tethered to the wall by wrist, ankles, and two bands around his middle. The Turk looked up at him, uncomprehending, a vague and simple look on his face._

_“_ **At last we are alone.** _”_

_The smile pulling at Hojo’s face seemed wrong, as if it were meant for a mouth much wider, and full of teeth much sharper than those found in a human mouth. Beneath the drug stupor, behind the confusion, a spike of fear surged up Vincent’s spine. Hojo fished in his pocket and produced a scalpel. Although blind without his glasses, he neatly slit Vincent’s scrub shirt up the middle. Reflexively, Vincent inhaled, pressing against the wall as much as he could. Hojo just smiled his too-wide smile and traced the point of the blade down Vincent’s chest. Although it drew no blood, it triggered a dry swallow and frisson of gooseflesh._

_“_ **Poor mortal,** _” Hojo said in a voice that was not his own. “_ **It isn’t you we want. You are handsome in your way, to be sure, but you are...how do your people put it? Not our type.** _” The feral grin stretched wider, exposing teeth that seemed longer and sharper than Vincent remembered._

_Hojo stepped closer, the fingers of one hand tracing over the crystalline scar that covered the materia in his chest. Vincent tried to back away, to shrink from the professor’s cold touch, but there was nowhere to go._

_“_ **So small, so vulnerable,** _,” Hojo mused softly, edging even closer. Vincent flinched, trying to lean away. He wasn’t into men and he_ certainly _wasn’t into Hojo. “_ **All your will, all you power reduced to one small stone, a stone bound to the spirit of a mortal- THREE mortals, no less!** _”_

_The laugh was cold and mocking, and Vincent shivered at the sound. Inside his head, Maskha and Gigas kept well back. Gallian stood at his elbow, hackles raised and growling. Only the Anger watched, silent, his fury building with every word._

_“_ **Are you so afraid of us?** _” Hojo asked, the smile turning to a taunting leer. He leaned closer, his profile nearly parallel with Vincent’s. The professor’s usually meticulously combed hair had grown longer than Vincent remembered, and required an elastic to hold it out of his face and off his collar. Without the hair tie, his hair hung down in a perfectly straight curtain of jet black over one eye. The visible eye had begun to glow an eerie green under the harsh fluorescent lights._

_“_ **You needn’t be,** _” Hojo breathed in his ear. “_ **We’ve come to set you free.** _”_

_Pain shot through him as Hojo stabbed the scalpel into the scar holding the materia in place. Before Vincent had time to scream, Gallian had leaped forward, jaws gaping, and lunged for the Professor’s throat. It seemed Hojo had not been expecting that. He stumbled back, only just managing to dodge the sharp teeth that snapped down on the empty air where the professor had been standing a moment ago. Watching from behind Gallian’s eyes, Vincent had expected Hojo to be afraid, but the professor just laughed the same cruel laugh. Scalpel still gripped in his right hand, he raised his left, a Wutaian-style sword gripped in his fist. Where it had come from, Vincent had no idea. If Hojo had brought it into the observation tank with him, he hadn’t noticed it._

_Gallian was unperturbed by the blade and pounced a second time. The fight was difficult to track from behind the Behemoth’s perspective; a flurry of dark fur, claws, teeth, and slashes from the sword. The bite of the blade registered only distantly; minor injuries, no more than nicks in the beast’s thick hide. Hojo danced out of the way easily, blade flashing, and Vincent wondered when and how he had learned to do that? Gallian yelped sharply, caught in mid-lunge, and they all cringed as the blade pierced his chest. Gallian tried to fight on, to sink his teeth into anything he could reach, but Hojo wrenched the blade, triggering another ear-splitting yipe. Unable to breathe, unable to stand, Gallian crumbled to the floor._

_“_ **Where is the stone?** _” Hojo asked, pulling the blade out and then plunging it in again, carving a deep gash in Gallian’s chest. Gallian howled and clawed, the professor less than an inch out of reach._

_‘I’ll wring his godsdamned neck,’ Gigas swore, rolling up his sleeves. ‘Stand aside, boy. S’my turn.’_

_Gallian gladly retreated, limping back into their mindscape as battered and bloody as he had been on the observation tank floor. In his place, Gigas surged up and grabbed the professor by the neck, lifting him clear off his feet. Hojo seemed surprised at this, his glowing green eyes going wide. The scalpel clattered to the floor as he reflexively grabbed the arm that held him, but he did not release the sword. Instead he brought it down on Gigas’ arm, severing it cleanly in two. The pain echoed back, Maskha screaming and collapsing against Vincent. Gallian, too wounded to do much else, snarled savagely. Gigas took it the best of all of them, treating the loss of an arm as no more than a minor inconvenience. Still in control of the severed limb, he squeezed down on Hojo’s throat and wound up for a bone-crunching punch to the face with his other hand._

_The professor rolled away at the last minute, leaving Gigas’ fist embedded in the floor. It took a few aborted tries to free himself, but by that time Hojo had regained his feet and had cast off the severed hand. Raising the sword high above his head, he brought it down hard on Gigas’ neck. Inside their mind, the floor lurched as if an earthquake had struck, the pain vibrating though all of them in an aftershock of agony. Vincent fought the urge to be sick, and struggled to hold onto Maskha, to try to protect her no matter how ineffective he was, but she had wiggled out of his arms._

_Hojo stumbled back as she screamed at him, saw raised and roaring above her head. A litany of curses that would have put a military man to shame streamed from her mouth as she took swing after swing at him. It was the first time genuine alarm had shown on the professor’s face. It was all he could do to deflect the spinning teeth of the saw. As he spun away from her, she caught the edge of his lab coat, the saw shredding the fabric to a ragged edge. A scowl creased his features and he twirled the sword once before gripping it in both hands._

_“_ **Bitch,** _” he growled, rushing at her, heedless of the spinning teeth of the saw. “_ **We will not be bested by a-- __**”

The last word was all but lost beneath the roar of the chainsaw as Maskha gunned the engine. Vincent wasn’t even sure it was a word, but the tone had gotten the point across. In the back of his mind, Chaos snapped to attention, an unmistakable expression of shock painted on his sharp features. The surprise evaporated into anger, white and hot, and he shoved his way to the front.

Maskha wasn’t faring as well as she had been. Hojo, it seemed, had only been playing with Gallian and Gigas. The blows aimed at Maskha were swift and deadly; her own weapon too bulky and heavy, she could not block every strike. Already she was on her knees and bleeding as Hojo poised the sword not high, but low, to rend in her in half from crotch to cranium.

Hojo swung the blade, but stumbled as the momentum met solid resistance. Looking up- and up _\- brought his eyes to a fist black as sin, the blade closed firmly within it._

_“_ **Don’t taunt the mortals,** _” Chaos intoned. “_ **We both know your quarrel is with me...Jenova.** __

_Hojo- it was Hojo’s body, but apparently not Hojo himself- swept her hair back and laughed. “_ **At last you show yourself!** _” She seemed entirely too happy about this. “_ **Does the god of Death wish his mortals to die, or did you hope they would kill this human shell? Not that that would do you much good, for like you and your brethren, we cannot be killed.** _”_

_She yanked the sword from Chaos’ fist, leaving a long slash in his palm. Black blood oozed toward the floor._

_“_ **We can see your heart now, not that we couldn’t before,** _” she went on, circling with the sword held out before her. No matter what she might say, trapped in Hojo’s body, she was now the weaker of the two combatants. “_ **Are you angry with us, our love? Everything we did, we did for both of us.** _”_

_“_ **Did you, indeed,** _” Chaos growled angrily. “_ **The plague, the destruction of the Dark temples, the burying of the silent wells, blaming your misdeeds on me, that you did for us?** _”_

_Jenova pouted, the expression surreal on Hojo’s face. “_ **We could have been the rulers of this Planet, you and I.** _”_

_“_ **I ALREADY ruled,** _” Chaos snarled, losing patience. “_ **I did not abandon my people in their time of need. I thought you were one of us, that you would help us, not suck dry the earth of every soul upon it!** _”_

_Jenova sighed dramatically and shook her head. “_ **Oh our love, our sweet love, you never did understand.** _”_

_This made Chaos pause and blink._

_“_ **We did not want to drink the blood of your precious Planet,** _” she explained patiently, as if speaking to a small child. “_ **We want to drink yours.** _”_

_With that she lunged, the sword digging deep into Chaos’ leathery hide. He let out a roar of rage and pain that shook both layers of shatter-proof glass. With one arm he struck, sending Jenova’s borrowed body across the room and into the wall. Crumbling to the floor, she lay senseless for a moment before picking herself up and shaking her head._

_“_ **That is the trouble with a mortal host,** _” Chaos told her, advancing. “_ **You are only as strong as the body.** _”_

_Pulling the sword out, he tossed it to the floor. Black blood flowed freely but he ignored it. What was such a wound to an immortal? Jenova had regained her feet, but did not look afraid. Indeed, she was smiling. Even when he bent and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off her feet, the smirk did not leave her face. Chaos seriously considered biting it off. Instead he added a second hand to the strangle-hold on her neck and began to squeeze._

_“_ **This body is only human, Crisis,** _” he growled. “_ **When it dies, Gaia shall be rid of you as well.** _”_

_“_ **Not just yet,** _” Jenova croaked, the manic grin still in place. Chaos blinked and started at the sharp bite of needle. Looking down, he noted a feathered dart sticking out of his chest. Ordinarily such a thing would have no effect on a Force of Nature, but like her, he shared a body with a mortal; three to be precise. Against his well, a wave of fatigue washed over him._

_“_ **I will kill you,** _” he vowed, struggling to maintain a grip that had suddenly become weak and clumsy._

_It was easy for Jenova to wiggle away, to drop to the ground and dart for the sword. Chaos staggered, forcing himself to remain upright. He was a Guardian of the Planet, a Force of Nature, the injection meant to sedate rabid animals should not have any effect on him! Except it was harder to block the swipe of the sword that Jenova had reclaimed from the floor, harder to hit her as she danced and dodged away from his increasingly sluggish attacks. Rage burned hot inside him as she knocked him on his back. It was as if his body had turned to lead; his strength had left him, even his anger could not rouse him to action._

_Planting a foot on his chest, Jenova raised the sword high above her head before plunging it deep into Chaos’ chest. The demon howled, the noise more pain than rage this time. She had driven the blade in near the scar in his chest that he shared with the mortal who called himself Vincent. Using the sword as if were a crowbar, she then began trying to lever the stone out of his body. The scream escaped his throat without permission. Unable to resist, barely able to move, it was all he could do._

_‘For godsake let us help!’_

_Chaos blinked. The mortals- battered and bloody- had congregated within their shared mindscape, waiting. For once, he did not dismiss them. Too weakened to manifest, instead they lent him their strength. It rushed through him like a surge of electricity, enlivening his limbs, awakening his brain. This time, instead of seizing Jenova, he took hold of the naked blade of the sword._

_“_ **No!** _” she cried. “_ **What are you doing?!** _”_

_“_ **You shall not have me or the mortals,** _” he growled. “_ **Not today.** _”_

_Pulling the sword out, he tossed it- Jenova still clinging to the pommel- across the room. This time when she landed, she did not get up._

_He wanted to stalk across the room to where the body lay. He wanted to snap the fragile bone and muscle that made up the neck. However, the borrowed strength of the others was already gone. For a moment he wavered where he stood, blood oozing like tar down his chest, before crumbling to the floor himself._

_\--_

_What with everything else, it took him a while to realize his arm was gone. His collarbone was still intact, but the ball of his shoulder and everything below it was missing in action. Presumed dead. Vincent cracked a half smile around the gag, making the orderlies- were they orderlies? maybe they were nurses? or perhaps interns, it was the kind of thing Shinra would make interns do- look at him askance and edge farther away. Where had they come from? He didn’t remember them entering the room. Then again, he didn’t remember much of anything. Maybe that was just as well. On the other side of lucidity lurked feeling and all the unpleasantness that physical sensation could bring. There were only vague wisps of what had happened earlier; dark vapor like that of nightmares that spoke only of pain._

_Vincent did his best to collect thoughts but not association. It was cold, he was half-dressed, and lying on the bare tile floor. Rolling his eyes upward gave him a foreshortened view of the observation tank. They must have used the gun on him again. He’d no idea who they’d tortured this time. At present, the inside of his head was oddly silent. It would not remain that way for long. Eventually the hung-over, cotton wool feeling would evaporate and the noise and the fight for control would begin again. He didn’t care. If they wanted to drive, they could take the wheel if they wanted. It didn’t make much difference who was at the helm these days. The unlucky pilot would be the one bearing the brunt of Hojo’s heavy hand._

_He didn’t know why he was still torturing him. That’s what it was. Torture. Vincent had never thought the conditioning classes would ever be put to such a test. It was a waiting game, coupled with a lot of acting, and a level of endurance that would put a marathoner to shame. To be fair, he had help. The creatures in his head often took turns, albeit not willingly. Some days Hojo seemed more interested in tormenting them. Other days, Hojo liked to remind Vincent in minute detail exactly how much he disliked him._

_The feeling was mutual._

_The others- that was how he thought of them- were loud today. All of them were trapped on the desert island of his mind and there was not enough space, not enough sanity to go around. The Beast, the Monster, the Girl, and the Demon. He did not clearly remember how they’d gotten here, only that they’d come. These weren’t facets of his own personality, they were independent wills with thoughts and feelings of their own. He didn’t mind them so much anymore, except when all of them were in pain, such as now. Times like those were unpleasant to say the least._

_All of them had arrived after a fresh phase of the Experiment. What that Experiment was supposed to be for, Vincent had no idea. So far it seemed to revolve around just how much punishment their shared body could take before one of them stepped up to try and stop the damage. Normally that was Gallian, or sometimes Gigas. Gallian, as an animal- a sentient animal, but an animal nonetheless- was usually first to launch any sort of counter-attack. Gigas was larger and stronger than Vincent was himself, despite being patched together from spare parts. He was a chivalrous soul, and usually tried to at least spare Maskha the unpleasantness of having to present herself in the middle of an attack. Maskha, for all she’d lived her life in the forest and could wield a blade as well as any man, had learned what fear was inside Shinra’s laboratory. Usually she was the last to step forward, and only when her terror had crystallized into rage._

_There was more than one day when all of them- even Chaos- lay in a bloody heap in the ruined landscape of his mind. Too exhausted to move, let alone put up a fight, they all retreated, deserted, and let the body lay empty rather than fill it and face the waking world.  
_


	43. Light's Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks suck.  
> So do cranky headmates.

Maybe it was the pastel-painted cinder block, or the worn-to-the-glue linoleum tile floors of the desert prison buildings. Everything was of an age with him, and like him, it had been treated harshly and made to function despite the obviously broken pieces. Before he closed his eyes all this would have been new and fresh, if no less cheap and institutional. Like Veld’s face it was familiar, but aged and weathered in a way that his eyes and his memory could never manage to reconcile.

Ghosts had flitted before his mind’s eye despite the heat, the sand, and the humbleness of the place. All these things assured him that he was free and far away from the old Shinra science department. But there were other things that had pinged his memory, made him jump or inhale sharply without reason. How he was going to spend the night in the camp- for it was too much to try to accomplish in one day- he did not know. Particularly since Veld was sharing a room with him, lodging being somewhat hard to come by inside the prison.

He stayed outside as long as he could, smoking bummed cigarettes and ostensibly making sure that there were no signs of imminent attack. Eventually, however, Veld grabbed him by the back of his jacket collar and dragged him inside. The tiny room with its bare walls and stark furnishings made his chest tighten, his skin crawl. The single barred window did not do much to alleviate the sensation that the walls were slowly creeping toward him. It was irrational, he was behaving like a fool, but logic was no match for raw fear.

“You can’t stay up all night, every night,” Veld told him like the slightly overbearing father he had become. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Vincent insisted.

“Yes you can,” Veld answered more gently. “C’mon, just a couple hours. I promise I’ll wake you if anything exciting happens.”

Vincent tried to smile, but it came off rather warped. Veld had no idea how close to the truth he was. Or perhaps he did? His old friend was studying him they way he had sometimes looked long and hard at subjects during interrogations.

“Talk to me.”

With a sigh, Vincent tried his best to explain.

“The last time I shut my eyes, I lost twenty-five years. Everyone I knew and loved went on without me. They got old. You got old. What if the next time I wake up...everyone’s gone?”

There was nothing to say to that and so Veld pulled him into a hug. Vincent put his arms around his friend and returned it gratefully.

“I’ll be right here,” Veld promised. “C’mon, time to hit the hay.”

Reluctantly, Vincent obeyed, and tried to get comfortable on the ancient double bed. Although there was a second, equally aged and lumpy piece of furniture, Veld came over and laid down next to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Same thing I used to do for Felicia,” Veld replied, making himself comfortable. “Keepin’ the monsters away.”

“All the monsters are in my head, Veld.”

“I dunno, they didn’t seem so bad when I met ‘em.”

Vincent chuckled a bit at that. “I don’t mean my headmates. I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Veld told him softly, laying a hand on his arm. “But if I’m here when you wake up, that means you haven’t lost any more time. We’re both still here. You’re not dreaming.”

“I’m still not sure if that’s true…” Vincent mumbled into the pillow. He’d expected Veld to reach and click off the bedside lamp, but he did no such thing. Somewhere in the back of his heart, Vincent was glad he’d left it.

“Well, like you said, if this’s a dream, it could be way worse.”

“I guess…”

“It’ll be fine,” Veld assured him with a pat. “Now try and get some sleep or I’ll have to start singing you lullabyes and believe me you do _not_ want to hear that.”

That got him an honest laugh and a sleepy “Goodnight.”

Closing his own eyes, Veld smiled.

 

\--

 

It reminded him a little of when he and Linda had first been married. Turks did not sleep heavy, and as such, he’d had to train himself not to start into full wakefulness as if the whole of Wutai were beating down his door every time she shifted in her sleep. Apparently the reflex was still there, gently alerting him to partial wakefulness every time Vincent moved next to him. Vin was a far cry from Linda, but it was comforting to have someone fill a space that for so long had been cold and empty. On the point of drifting back into deeper sleep, the noise that had initially prodded him awake came again.

Beside him, Vincent shuddered and whimpered. Under any other circumstances, Vincent might have started awake himself, but the poor kid had almost thirty years to catch up on. Still half-starved and exhausted, he was deep asleep, clinging to the back of the Night Mare as she took him for a terrifying ride. Both arms were crossed tightly over his chest, hands fisted over his heart. Veld’s first thought was that he was having a heart attack. The memory of the mass of scars and the summon materia could only mean complications. Veld had wanted to let Vincent sleep until he woke up, whenever that might be. This, however, changed things. Carefully, he reached and touched the other man’s shoulder.

“Vin?”

Veld had expected him to startle, to jerk awake, to be ready for a fight. Although Vincent cried out at the touch, he pulled in tighter on himself as if braced for attack. A wise man let sleeping Turks lie, but something was wrong.

“Vin?” he tried again. “Kid? What’s the matter?”

Vincent’s breaths came short and rapid through clenched teeth, his whole body taut and tensed. Eyes half-lidded, he shivered where he lay. And then Veld saw the blood.

The claws of the new arm had punched through the thin fabric of the gray T-shirt and deep into the flesh of Vincent’s chest. With his organic hand Vincent gripped the wrist of the metal one, fingers clenched so hard they shook.

“Vin?” he tried once more, carefully laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder and shaking it gently. He’d been prepared for a fight, for Vincent to panic upon waking, and was not disappointed. Vincent’s eyes snapped open, burning red in the darkness. He snarled and released his grip on his metal arm, the backhanded swing catching Veld in the jaw and sending him tumbling to the floor.

Vincent had stumbled to the opposite corner of the room, black blood seeping down his shirt toward his waistband now that he was upright. He clutched his left hand with his right; either to restrain the claw, or to protect it. Scrambling to his feet, Veld crouched into a ready stance, prepared to defend himself. He wasn’t at all sure his former partner was awake- or even if it was Vincent behind the burning red eyes.

“ _ **No…**_ ” Vincent growled in a voice too low and guttural to be his own. “ _ **Not this time… I will not suffer your hand again…**_ ”

“Vincent?” Veld asked, praying that it was indeed Vincent and not one of the others.

Vincent- he hoped it was Vincent- edged backwards until his back connected with the wall. Long body trembling, his metal fist clenched tighter over the place where the materia lay embedded in his chest, resulting in a fresh cascade of inky blood. Veld took a step forward, but promptly reversed as Vincent let out a savage noise.

“ _ **STAY BACK!**_ ” he barked, baring teeth longer and sharper than Veld remembered.

“Vin, it’s just me. It’s Veld. The Old Man, remember?”

Vincent just stared at him, chest heaving panic breaths, blood coating his hands and streaming down his shirt. Slowly, Veld lowered himself amid many creaks and pops of protesting joints to kneel on the floor, arms spread wide.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just me. It’s been a while, but you’ve come home. A lot’s happened, but it’s okay now. It’ll be okay.”

“ _ **No…**_ ” the too-low voice rumbled. “ _ **No, I will not be deceived again…**_ ”

“Nobody’s playin’ you,” Veld insisted. “It’s okay, I’m on your side.”

A laugh, cold and emotionless, escaped Vincent’s throat. Veld felt every hair he had stand on end.

“ _ **Not this time…**_ ” The words were dark and gravely. “ _ **You will not have me, or him, or any of us. I will tear it out first!**_ ”

“Wait, let’s talk about this!”

Vincent shrieked, the sound much more horribly familiar than the demonic growl. With his flesh hand he pulled at the brazen claw; the fingers of which were now sunk up to the second knuckle in his chest. Oily black blood streamed down his shirt, his trousers, and he collapsed to his knees.

“Vin!” Before he could think better, Veld rushed to his side.

“You’re okay,” he lied, struggling to loosen the grip of the metal fingers. “Just relax. Breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Vincent’s eyes were blank pools of blood red light. Releasing his metal arm, he clutched instead at his head, a ragged sob tearing through him.

“What is it Vin?” Veld asked, struggling to keep his friend upright while still wrestling with the claw. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Take it off,” he sobbed, “Chaos… Take it off--” Veld winced as the last word twisted into an inhuman howl, Vincent’s features contorting in pain. The metal talons bit deeper into his flesh, provoking a fresh scream and more blood. Deciding this was officially more than he could handle alone, Veld added his own voice to the hideous noise.

“ _HEY!_ ” he roared, not caring if he woke the whole damn compound. “ _HEY, I GOT A TEN-ZERO IN HERE! AGENT DOWN! SOMEBODY GET THE HELL IN HERE!_ ”

Before he’d been fighting to get the claw out of Vincent’s chest, now he found himself struggling to keep it _in_. The metal fingers curled around the materia in his heart, the arm seemed to have taken on a mind of its own and was trying to tear it out.

Elfe was the first to arrive, bursting through the door with Zack right behind her.

“What’s happened?” she demanded.

“Flashback,” Veld grunted, struggling to hold on. “Get Sephiroth! Find somebody who can bring him out of this!”

Zack disappeared, but Elfe came closer.

“Let me, Daddy,” she said, kneeling down.

Between the two of them they managed to ease Vincent to the floor. Veld took his flesh hand while Elfe wrestled with the metal one. Turks were a stoic bunch as a rule, and Vincent had never been vocal about his feelings. The only time Veld could remember the kid losing it was after his father had died. Back then, neither of them had been in the greatest shape emotionally, but they’d made it through. They’d gotten drunk, sobbed on each other’s shoulders, and gone back to work. But this was different. Tears flowed down Vincent’s cheeks, chest heaving with too-deep breaths that seemed to draw no oxygen. All Veld could do was try to remind the kid that he was there.

“It’s okay, Vin,” Veld told him, forcing his voice to hold a comforting monotone. “You’re alright. Just breathe real slow, okay?”

He seemed not to hear, his blank red stare lacking focus and holding only fear. Elfe’s arms shook with the effort of keeping the claw in place. The Turk’s blood was black and thick, the oily fluid seeping through the seams of her gloves. Grip slipping, she leaned down with her folded arm and tore her gloves off. Veld blinked at the crystalline scar on her right hand, his eyes flicking from the shard of materia, to his half-conscious partner, and back again. 

“...Felicia?”

“Professor Hojo said it was the only way to save my arm,” she grunted by way of an explanation. The brazen fist pulled at the materia again, forcing a scream and more blood from Vincent’s chest. Elfe shoved hard, bearing down on the prosthetic with all her weight to keep it from tearing the glowing stone out of his flesh. Oily blood washed over her hands, sticky and slick all at once. In the back of her mind, something pinged, almost as if she’d been struck. Before she could protest, Zirconiade had shoved her way to the front.

“ _ **Brother?**_ ” she asked, borrowing Elfe’s voice. Still shivering, the Turk quieted somewhat, focus returning to his blank red eyes.

“ _ **Sister?**_ ” he replied in a voice too deep and gravely to be human. For a long moment, Zircon just stared; past the flesh, past the patchwork of personalities that inhabited the mortal’s head. There he was, her brother, alive if not necessarily well.

“ _ **We thought you dead…**_ ” she breathed and gathered him close. Expression crumbling, he hid his face in her shoulder and sobbed. Veld could only look on, utterly bewildered.

“ _ **The Crisis…**_ ” Chaos mumbled into her shoulder. “ _ **For years she held us; tortured the mortals to provoke me. She tried to kill us...so many times she tried…**_ ”

“ _ **She will pay,**_ ” Zircon promised, smoothing his back with one hand. “ _ **I am glad she did not succeed.**_ ”

“ _ **I wonder...**_ ” Chaos muttered, guttural voice strangely tired. “ _ **It would have been better for the mortals had they perished. Instead, my presence keeps them all alive, bound to Life, bound to each other. We cannot be killed, Zircon, but I cannot fight like this. If I am to vanquish her, I must be free.**_ ”

Her eyes traveled down to where the talons of the metal hand cut deep into the mortal’s flesh.

“ _ **If you remove it, they will perish.**_ ”

Chaos’ countenance darkened. “ _ **They should have perished long ago. None of them desire to go on like this.**_ ”

“ _ **The one Elfe calls Valentine seems reluctant to die,**_ ” Zircon observed drily. “ _ **Are you so certain this is the only way? If you remove the materia from his body, what of you? Will you remain bonded to the stone, or will you return to the Planet?**_ ”

He seemed not to have thought of that.

“ _ **Elfe and I have found a way to manage, brother. Would it not be best to aid the mortals? To let them aid you? The Crisis considers them no more than insects, yet we know them to be resilient, cunning, and stronger than we once thought possible. Perhaps they can be of help?**_ ”

For a long moment, Chaos considered this, his gaze cast down to study the floor.

“ _ **I want to be free…**_ ”

“ _ **So do they,**_ ,” she reminded him. “ _ **Do not throw life away so carelessly, especially when it is not your own.**_ ”

He did not reply, did not even nod, but after a moment the red glow in his eyes faded and the metal fist relaxed. The Turk’s eyes rolled back, then his head, and he collapsed to the floor, pulling Elfe with him.

Deciding to wonder what the hell that had been about later, Veld seized his daughter by the shoulders and tried to wake her.

“Felicia! Elfe! Honey, wake up!”

Happily, she did as she was told after a minute or two, groggily blinking herself into consciousness. Smeared with Vincent’s blood, she put a hand to her head.

“What the hell?” she asked no one in particular. “What just happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Veld glanced up to see Sephiroth enter the room, his dark-haired Colonel behind him.

“Nightmare,” was the only explanation Veld could offer. “Felicia got him to snap out of it.”

For a very marginal definition thereof. His partner lay inert and senseless on the floor, blood pooling in a wide puddle beneath him. He was not breathing.

“Dammit, Vin…” Zack grumbled. Chest compressions would not be the best idea since the bronze claw was still embedded in his flesh.

“I’ve got it,” Sephiroth said, fingering a Cure materia. “When you’re ready.”

Zack nodded and waited until Sephiroth had begun muttering the incantation before carefully pulling the metal talons out of Vincent’s chest. It wasn’t easy to work the fingers loose; Palmer’s modifications had much more shape and articulation than the simple scythe-like claws of the original model. Blood bubbled up immediately; five tiny fountains gushing black. At once Sephiroth released the spell, sealing the wounds. Veld waited a tense minute as the flesh knit itself back together before Zack gently elbowed around Felicia and began pumping Vincent’s sternum with both hands.

“You know, Vince,” Zack grunted, “you really need to stop this.”

As he leaned to breathe into the older man’s mouth, Vincent coughed, spraying Zack with oily black drops.

“Eww…” Zack did his best to wipe the blood away with one hand. “Say it, don’t spray it.”

Despite himself, Veld smiled. Vincent coughed a few times until his breathing settled- shallow, but even. Through it all, he had not awoken. It was probably just as well.

“What happened?” Sephiroth repeated. Veld shrugged.

“He’d been restless all day. Tried to get him to sleep, and he got a couple hours before he had a nightmare. It turned into a flashback and he flipped. Felicia managed to talk him down, but his arm must have malfunctioned.”

It was an obviously abridged version, but judging by his expression, the General was having no trouble reading between the lines. Carefully, Sephiroth knelt and slid one arm behind Vincent’s back, the other under his knees. Hefting the older man into his arms, he stood.

“I’ll take him to the clinic,” he informed those gathered. “Veld, would you come with me? He’ll require a familiar face once he’s stabilized. Zack, please see to anything Commander Verdot may require.”

Zack nodded. “Sir.”

“Sure,” Veld agreed since he would have come whether he’d been invited or not. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, reluctant to leave her if she couldn’t sit up by herself.

“Fine, Daddy,” she told him with a smile. Nodding, Veld got to his feet and followed the general out the door.


	44. Tuneup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent and Elfe both have some work done.  
> Also, Shalua.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think it's a trigger per se, but warnings of non-graphic descriptions of blood'n'guts. Also needles. Needles suck, unless you are using them to sew.

Sephiroth had wanted to stay, but let Zack persuade him otherwise. If Chaos woke before Vincent, and the ‘whelp of the Crisis’ was still in the room, they might have a _real_ problem on their hands. The last thing they needed was for his Lordship to pitch another hissy fit and possibly level the camp before they’d gotten everyone out. Although Commander Verdot had wanted to go back to her room, Zack dragged her to the clinic and her father not long after Sephiroth had retreated. She’d been on her feet, but leaning on him heavily, one arm slung over his shoulders.

“I wasn’t gonna let her go back to her room, not like this,” he explained. “If something happened to her, I’d have you to answer to, and I like my kneecaps the way they are.” The line had been delivered with a grin, but Veld could tell the young man was only partially kidding. It was nice to know that the suit still meant a degree of automatic respect. He’d clapped the kid on the shoulder and helped Elfe to one of the beds amid many protestations on her part.

“Daddy, I’m _fine!_ Really!” she insisted.

“‘Course you are,” he agreed, “but the beds in here are probably better than the one in your room,” which was not untrue, “and this way if Vin has another nightmare, you’ll be here to help me.”

That appeased her pride somewhat, and she grudgingly sat down on one of the vacant cots. She had not yet put her gloves back on, though she had washed away Vincent’s blood. Her right hand looked red and swollen. For the moment, Veld ignored Vincent, who was still dead to the world, and turned his full attention to his daughter. Gently, he took her hand and held it.

A marquis-shaped piece of crystal was embedded in the back of her right hand, the flesh surrounding it black and inflexible, like lead around a piece of stained glass. The rest of her skin was of a more normal tint, but was swirled and shiny with old scars, as if her hand and arm had been painted and gessoed with a brush. 

“What happened here?”

“The fire,” she told him quietly. “This is actually the worst of it. I was hanging onto mom with this arm. Only my right arm, shoulder, and a little bit of my side got scorched. Honestly, you can’t really tell on my side and shoulder. It looks kind of like a mild sunburn.”

“Why the crystal? You said Hojo put it there, that it was the only way to save you.”

She nodded. “Yeah. It was all hands on deck with so many people injured. Everyone who knew how to apply a Band-Aid was commandeered and put to work at Old Midgar General. I was there a while because I kept relapsing. In the end, they had to get creative with me.”

“So what is it?”

“It’s a piece of Summon materia,” Elfe explained. “One quarter of Zirconiade. The full materia was too big, and there were other people who might need it, so Professor Hojo broke it into pieces.”

Automatically, Veld turned to look at Vincent, still out cold. Hojo had to have been thinking of this first materia implant when he treated Elfe. It had worked on Vincent, so perhaps it would work on a child?

“So you’ve got the same thing Vin has.”

Elfe shook her head. “Not really. I mean, you saw what happened. Zircon’s her own entity. She hangs out in my head; I can speak to her, and she lends me her power, but I can’t transform the way he does. It also costs me a lot of energy to channel her like that.”

“Is that why you were able to take Sephiroth in a duel?”

Elfe blushed, her expression mortified. “Tell. _No one,_ ” she growled. Veld tried vainly to hold back a chuckle.

“Your secret’s safe with me, sweetheart,” he promised, leaning to kiss her forehead. “I swear on pain of death, dismemberment, and subjection to Vincent’s cooking that I won’t breathe a word.”

That made her laugh, a smile lighting up her face.

“Seriously, you alright?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ll have Fuhito look at it when we get back. I probably need a makou injection. That seems to be the only way to get back up to 100% without taking a week off.”

Veld doubted there was any makou on hand in the camp clinic, but he began going through the cupboards looking for the next best thing. Aha!

“This’ll have to do for now,” he said, tossing a small package of cookies into her lap. At the very least, a snack would boost her blood sugar a bit.

“Tea party?” she asked amused.

Veld smiled. “Something like that.”

Both looked up as the door creaked. The little red-headed nurse stood on the other side, Sephiroth and his spiky-haired second right behind her.

“You okay?” the nurse- Rui, if she remembered correctly- came over to her. “The General said there’d been an incident.”

“Oh my gods!” Elfe huffed, shoving herself off the cot, intending to march over and give the Shinra commander a piece of her mind. “I am _fine!_ I don’t need a doc--” her protests might have gone over better had she not trailed off and collapsed in mid-tirade. Her father lunged to catch her before she could hit the floor.

“I can see that,” Rui remarked, assisting Veld in getting his daughter back onto the cot. Still partially conscious, Elfe blinked a few times and squinted at the faces above her.

“Where’s the doctor?” Veld asked. Sephiroth shrugged.

“Drunk,” Rui supplied, deadpan. “He’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t drink during work hours, but good luck getting him to do anything after five o’clock. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until 7 A.M. What’s this?” She had noticed Elfe’s hand.

“Let go,” Elfe slurred, yanking her hand away and cradling it against her chest with the other.

The nurse stood there for a moment, looking at her patient, but not seeing her, her attention drawn inward. At length, she returned to the present.

“Did Professor Hojo treat you?”

Across the room, Sephiroth stiffened and bristled at the name. Zack took a half-step closer to his commander. Elfe just stared.

“Yeah…” she drawled, pushing herself up on one elbow. “Why?”

“‘Cause he treated me too.” Rolling up her sleeve, Rui turned to display the shoulder joint of her prosthetic arm. Like Veld’s, the shoulder cap housed the materia that powered the artificial limb. Unlike Veld’s arm, however, the materia inside was not a standard green sphere, but was concealed inside a customized fitting made to fit the existing slot. With her flesh hand, Rui pulled it out and popped the top open with her thumb, revealing a familiar-looking shard of crystal.

“Zircon…” Elfe breathed, reaching to touch it. As soon as her fingers met the sliver of materia, the fragment blazed white. A blinding light flashed, and when Elfe dared to open her eyes again, the shard embedded in her hand was much larger: the pieces had fused.

Closing her eyes against the sudden increase in volume of Zirconiade’s presence, she wobbled where she sat. Veld put an arm around her shoulders to steady her and she leaned against him gladly. Once the world had stopped spinning, she asked:

“Do you know who else has a Zircon fragment?”

The young nurse shook her head. “I don’t, I’m sorry.”

“Your arm...you won’t be able to work,” Elfe began, suddenly guilty over her inadvertent theft of the younger woman’s materia. However, the nurse waved her off.

“It’s okay. I’m sure Professor Hojo meant for you to have that fragment. That’s why he only rigged it as a power source and didn’t implant it directly into my body the way he did with you. I’m just glad I could help.”

Elfe smiled. “Thank you.”

“What kind do you need, Rui?” This was Sephiroth, armlet in hand, looking over the materia he had equipped. The nurse blinked, not expecting this.

“Oh-- I couldn’t, Sir,” she stammered. “And just ‘Shalua’ is fine. I can get a level-one fire, or electricity…”

“Nonsense,” Sephiroth told her, still sorting through the variety of colored stones. “What about this one? A Summon for a Summon. I’m sure she’d be much happier with you anyway.”

“She?” Shalua echoed as the general pushed a red stone into her hand. It felt like a tiny ball of ice. Snowflakes seemed to swirl just beneath its crystalline surface, and a name formed in her mind: _Shiva_.

“I...thank you, Sir,” she said blankly, and slotted it into place in her shoulder.

The spiky-haired Colonel was already giving the unconscious Turk a once-over, but he stepped aside when she came over. The Turk’s T-shirt and pajama pants were streaked with black blood. Five wedge-shaped gouges lingered in the thin cotton of the shirt.

“The heck happened to him?” Shalua asked.

“His arm shorted out,” the Colonel supplied. “He’s a POW. That on top of a nightmare and he kinda lost it. Commander Verdot got him to calm down.”

“Zircon did,” Elfe corrected. “She knows, Colonel Fair. You _all_ know, so I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret to yourselves.” It was not a request, and she made sure they knew it by giving each of them a few seconds of her best military glare. The General inclined his head in a Wutaian half-bow, the Colonel and Shalua saluted, and her father just nodded. “Thank you.”

“So,” Shalua began awkwardly, “is this self-inflicted?” She gestured at the claw marks in Vincent’s shirt.

Sephiroth and Zack exchanged uncertain looks. Several seconds ticked by without a response. Shrugging, Shula fetched a pair of scissors to cut the unconscious Turk out of his ruined T-shirt. The snick of the shears as she opened them triggered a sharp intake of breath, and the Turk started awake.

“No no, just lie back,” Shalua told him, setting down the scissors and reaching to push him down onto the mattress. Zack yanked her back just in time, the swipe of Vincent’s claw sending her glasses going flying across the room.

“Vincent!” Sephiroth grunted, doing his best to wrestle the other man back. “It’s Sephiroth. It’s alright.”

“Vin?” Veld asked, coming over but keeping a safe distance. This seemed to percolate, and Vincent grew still, both wrists still locked in Sephiroth’s fists.

“Veld?” Vincent asked uncertainly, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. If anything, his panic shot up again upon noticing where he was. “I’m fine,” he said automatically. “I’m alright. I don’t need anything.”

“No, of course not,” Veld was quick to agree. “Do you remember what happened?”

Vincent just stared at him. “Remember?” he asked blankly.

“Your arm shorted out,” he said smoothly. “Shalua’s gonna fix it.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Of course.”

It was arguable if Vincent actually knew what was going on, if his dazed expression was anything to go by. For a long moment he sat quietly, looking from one face to the next. If he recognized anyone, he gave no indication. Attention drawn inward, he contemplated his lap for several minutes. Without warning, he raked the talons of his metal hand across the skin of his forearm, leaving four bloody slashes.

“Don’t!” Shaula shouted, attempting to break out of Zack’s grip to help, but he held her fast. Elfe also startled at the sudden violence, but her father held up a hand. Strangely, as Vincent watched the oily blood run black onto the white sheets, he seemed to relax.

“I’m not dreaming,” he murmured.

“No,” her father told him softly, putting an arm around him, “you’re not.”

Vincent sagged against Veld, all his strength seeming to leave him at once. Stepping forward, Sephiroth took the wounded arm in his hand and cast a healing spell. The slashes sealed themselves at once; only the spilled blood remaining to suggest there had ever been an injury.

Exhausted, Vincent sat quietly while Veld detached his metal arm. Elfe saw the sense in this. Even if Vincent were to have another episode, without the prosthetic limb, he would not be able to enact an encore of the earlier scene. It struck her then that the three people gathered around the bed were all missing an arm, the very same arm: gold, silver, and ivory white instead of flesh extended from their left sleeves. The oft used phrase _I’d give my right arm..._ chased through her mind. What, she wondered, had her father, Vincent, and Shalua gotten in exchange for their left arms?

“Will he be okay until morning?” Shalua asked. Now free of Zack’s grip, she retrieved her glasses and went over to examine her patient, only to find him sound asleep.

“Yeah,” Veld assured her. “He knows it’s real now.”

 

\--

 

Sephiroth only felt mild guilt about casting the sleeping spell on Vincent. Magic-induced sleep was not as good as natural sleep, but it was a hell of a lot better than sleep plagued by nightmares and the associated anxiety attacks upon waking. He would have to make sure Veld got a Sleep materia to keep on hand in case of emergencies. He, Zack, and Veld had taken turns sitting with Vincent while he slept to ensure that he did not wake up alone. Commander Verdot had seemed amused by this, but had made no comment. She was already gone by the time he came to relieve Zack. The sun was rising in the sky, but it would be hours before anything bore any resemblance to being remotely ready as far as the civilians were concerned. He would not need to supervise anything for a while yet. Shalua was poking at Vincent’s prosthetic, and the curtain had been drawn around his bed. There were two pairs of feet and a some muffled cursing evident behind it. Apparently, Zack had taken it upon himself to give Vincent a hand in dressing since he was currently short one.

“Good morning, General,” Shalua told him, straightening and offering a clumsy salute.

“Rui,” he said, returning salute. “How are things?”

“Agent Valentine’s a lot better. He woke up about thirty minutes ago. He was a little disoriented, but Colonel Fair helped him remember what happened the other night.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Good. When will the doctor be in?”

“Another hour or two,” Shalua said, eyeing the wall clock. “Besides, I’m the automail mechanic. He does the squishy bits, I handle the hardware.”

Sephiroth allowed himself a chuckle at that. “And his arm?”

Although Shalua had seen the materia in Vincent’s chest, she had not asked for further information, and no one had given her any. She’d been comfortable enough with Commander Verdot’s materia- which explained a few things in Sephiroth’s mind and further muddled others- but he didn’t think her learning about Chaos would benefit the situation. Vincent would call it ‘need to know information’, and Shalua did not need to know.

“I’m still looking for the short in his arm,” Shalua went on, cutting into his thoughts, “but it doesn’t seem to be in the prosthetic itself, although it’s hard to tell because there’s no power source. It’s a beautiful piece, really well-designed, so I’m guessing it’s something with the biocuff. You think he’d let me look him over?”

Sephiroth shrugged and turned to look as Zack pulled the curtain aside. “Ask him yourself.”

Vincent looked a bit better, he thought, for having managed a few hours of undisturbed sleep. Veld had provided him with a fresh uniform, but Vincent had not yet gotten to the tie and jacket; the left sleeve of his white button-down shirt hung limp and empty.

“Ask me what?” he asked.

“I’d like to look at your biocuff,” the nurse asked, standing as he approached. “From what I can tell, your prosthetic is fine, if lacking a power source. _Please_ tell me it’s not powered by the materia in your chest?”

“I don’t know,” Vincent admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

Shalua’s expression was somewhere between dumbfounded and horrified, but she quickly shook it off. “Okay, take off your shirt.”

For some reason it sounded funny coming from her young mouth, even in a medical context. Zack must be rubbing off on him. Once Vincent had shrugged out of his dress shirt, he took a seat on the examination bench. He didn’t seem entirely at ease, but was calm enough that Sephiroth did not think another panic attack was forthcoming.

“Give me your arm,” Shalua said, holding out one hand, hypodermic poised in the other.

Or not.

Vincent had no pulse, yet even standing a few inches away, he could swear he felt Vincent’s heart rate spike, his breaths suddenly rapid and too deep.

“How ‘bout you put that down?” Zack suggested.

“It’s only a local anesthetic,” she explained. “It’s not like it’s going to knock you out.”

Vincent swallowed hard. “No,” he said. “No needles.”

“Vin…” Zack began. “This is gonna _hurt_. She’s gonna be poking your _nerves_. That is _not_ gonna be fun.”

“ _No needles_ ,” he insisted. “Just give me something to hold onto. I’ll be fine.”

Sephiroth looked dubious. “Are you sure?” Although he could appreciate Vincent’s aversion to syringes the way few others could, there was still one considerable hazard. “What about…?”

“My limit breaks are triggered by damage, not pain. It’s barely begun to refill. It’ll be fine.”

Reluctantly, Sephiroth nodded. “Alright.”

“Whoa,” Shalua said, putting down the needle and holding up both her hands. “Time out. What do you mean limit break?”

Vincent tilted his head to one side and turned to look at Sephiroth. “She doesn’t know?”

The General shrugged. “It wasn’t my place to say.”

Vincent considered that for a moment, then pulled the T-shirt over his head. “I carry a summon materia. I believe that’s why my arm malfunctioned.”

The young nurse blinked at the mass of scar tissue, but otherwise seemed non-plussed. “So...the summon materia powers your arm, and it was the Summon- not you- that tried to rip the materia out of your chest.”

“That’s about the size of it, yes.”

“Geeze…” she commented. “Which Summon?”

“Chaos.”

“I don’t know him,” Shaula replied. “Sorry.”

Something like a smirk flitted across Vincent’s face. “I’ll try to keep it that way.”

“You sure you don’t want any anesthesia?”

“ _No._ ”

“Fine by me. It’ll make it easier to tell if the neurosensory hookups were done right, but I’m going to need you two-” she nodded at Zack and Sephiroth- “to hold him down. I don’t care how macho you think you are,” she said, eyeing Vincent. “The instinct to shy away is reflexive and I’m going to need you to hold absolutely still.”

Vincent nodded. “I understand.”

Shalua’s look indicated that she was not at all sure that he did, but she nodded and pointed at the long bench situated against the near wall.

“All of you sit down. You,” she pointed at Vincent, “in the middle, and the two of you,” she nodded at Zack and Sephiroth, “one in front and one behind.”

Shalua pulled a stool and the tray of implements over while they arranged themselves. More by accident than intent, Zack wound up on Vincent’s left, Sephiroth on his right. Sitting astride the bench, Vincent and Zack sat one behind the other with Sephiroth facing Vincent. It took them an extra, awkward minute to figure out how to organize their knees while Shalua pulled on a pair of surgical gloves.

“Ordinarily I’d have used restraints; tied you to a chair or something, but I didn’t think you’d like that, and I wasn’t sure it would hold you anyway.” Her smile was kind, sympathetic, almost sad as she rested a hand on what was left of his shoulder. “Believe it or not, I don’t really like hospitals either. Not when I’m a patient, anyway.”

Amazingly, Vincent returned her smile with a brief one of his own.

“Here,” she said, holding a folded scrap of leather that looked as if it might have been a belt in a former life under his nose. “You’ll want this, believe me.”

Obediently, Vincent opened his mouth and let her put the bit of leather between his teeth.

“Okay you two, hang on tight. Make sure you pin his other arm good, and you may want to loop a leg over his.”

Sephiroth couldn’t help looking at her quizzically. Shalua rolled her eyes.

“Hey, it was his brilliant idea to skip the novacaine. You can’t let him stand up, okay?”

“Okay,” Sephiroth replied, casting Vincent an apologetic look before shifting to hook his knee over Vincent’s. The older man, mouth full, actually seemed vaguely amused. Leaning forward, Zack wrapped his arms around him, pinning Vincent’s right arm against his side. Shifting slightly, Sephiroth did the same, pulling Vincent into something resembling an overly-cautious hug.

“You ready?” Shalua asked. Taking a deep breath, Vincent nodded.

“Okay. I’m just gonna tap the sensory nodes first, just to see what’s connected. This is a very, very weak electrical current. It shouldn’t be painful, but it’ll probably feel really weird.”

The tool reminded Zack of a wood-burner. Carefully, Shalua rested one hand on the stub of Vincent’s shoulder and with the other, touched the wood-burner to the various nodes in his shoulder cuff. Vincent inhaled sharply and flinched, but otherwise did not move.

“That hurt?”

“Mph…” Vincent replied, mouth full. The noise was affirmative, if lacking urgency. Shalua’s brows creased.

“That shouldn’t be...” Pausing long enough to make a quick note, she continued her way down the nodes. Vincent did not even blink as she tested the remaining sensors, but gave a stifled cry as she touched the last one. Again, she frowned.

“That’s weird.” Sighing through her nose, she shook her head. “Okay, hang on to him. Mr. Valentine? I’m going to have to remove your biocuff. Again, it shouldn’t hurt, but you’re definitely going to feel me rooting around. I’m going to try to be gentle.”

He nodded, and Shalua reached for a different set of tools. It was like the worst crossover of biology lab and metal shop to Zack’s mind. Stainless steel and human flesh were not meant to be grafted together like that. Even to his unpracticed eye, it didn’t look as if whoever had done it had known what they were doing. A moment later, Shalua confirmed his suspicions.

“Who the _hell_ did this?” she asked, probably not expecting an answer. “They knew their biology well enough, the tissue’s in decent shape, but holy crap this wiring… I’m guessing someone else did your arm, because whoever did this was a total ameture.”

Behind the scrap of leather, Vincent gave a macabre chuckle. Sephiroth also bit his own lip, apparently sharing in the black humor. Zack just shook his head.

“You two are so weird.”

“You have no idea,” Sephiroth replied. Shalua ignored them, still poking about in Vincent’s shoulder.

“Okay… This is...not great. I wish I had a way to X-ray your shoulder. I just don’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about this.”

“Your bedside manner is impeccable,” Zack told her dryly. She appeared not to hear him. Instead, she was gently squeezing Vincent’s shoulder along his collarbone working her way towards his neck, a faraway look in eye. “Your clavicle feels weird. Too thick and too brittle all at the same time. I can feel some pins and healed-over breaks. Your prosthetic is a little heavier than most models, but it wouldn’t have caused this kind of damage.”

At last she noticed all three of them looking at her with some measure of alarm.

“Sorry,” she said, cheeks staining pink. “I’m used to having people stoned when I do this, so they don’t care if I ramble.”

“Can you just fix his wiring?” Zack asked, feeling it was best to get back on topic.

“Of course, but I’d feel better knowing what kind of substructure was in place to hold the prosthetic.”

“We can deal with that later,” Sephiroth added. “If you would, please?”

“Yes, excuse me.” Taking a breath, she selected another implement. “Okay, it’s not clear which is the conductor in this mess. I’m going to have to tap your nerves again so I can find the wire that’s conducting power and not feeling. This time, you’re not gonna like it. Pretty much all of this ought to be replaced anyway. Half of this isn’t even insulated, what the hell?”

Oddly, Vincent still looked amused, or did until she reached into his shoulder with something that resembled a pair of needle-nose pliers. He inhaled sharply, eyes going wide and body rigid.

“I’m sorry,” Shalua told him. “Just try not to move…”

He grunted, teeth digging into the leather and clutching at Sephiroth’s coat with his right hand. Shifting his grip slightly, Sephiroth patted what he could reach of Vincent’s undamaged shoulder.

“Almost done…” Shalua drawled, squinting at what she was doing.

Vincent jumped in their arms, both Zack and Sephiroth having to pile the full force of their combined weight to keep him in his seat. The accompanying half-swallowed shriek made Sephiroth cringe.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Just…” Gritting her own teeth, Shalua prodded at a particularly stubborn wire.

The scrap of leather fell from his mouth as Vincent let out an inhuman howl, his eyes suddenly burning red.

“ _No_ ,” Sephiroth told him, trying to keep his voice low and even. “No, calm down. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it _now!_ ” Zack snapped, struggling to hold on.

At once Shalua dropped her tools and raised both hands as if in surrender. Vincent sagged against them, breathing heavy and ragged.

“And that’s why anyone with half a brain puts the materia in the housing, _not_ the body,” Shalua concluded, carefully curling the wire back on itself and wrapping it with a piece of tape. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was the conductor. I’ve never seen one routed like this before. There’s no way I can get that out without putting you under. Hell, there’s no way I can get that out without a surgeon. That’s beyond my skill level.”

Vincent, dazed and head lolling on Sephiroth’s shoulder, did not make any immediate reply.

“So...there’s a wire leading from the materia in his chest to his arm?” Sephiroth asked.

Shalua nodded. “Yes. And you just _don’t_ do that. _Ever_. Otherwise...this,” she gestured broadly at Vincent, “happens.”

“Would it be better to remove it or leave it?”

“Honestly? It’d be best to remove the wire. He doesn’t need a prosthetic running on the same thing that’s powering his heart. However, that’s not a procedure I can perform myself. The best I can do is cap the connection and retrofit his prosthetic with a materia slot. I still need to update some of his nerve connections, and that will not be fun, but at least he’ll be able to tell what his left hand is doing without risking further damage to the rest of his body.”

“How long will that take?” Sephiroth asked. Already they had spent longer at the prison than he would have liked. Old Man Shinra was likely to send another one of Azul’s children with their own legion of Deepground soldiers as soon as they realized what had happened.

“Not long,” Shalua said, surprising him with her answer. “Because it’s painful, the procedure is brief by necessity.”

“Think you can manage?” he asked Vincent, who had recovered enough that his breathing had evened, though he still hung dazed and white-faced in Zack and Sephiroth’s arms. Hauling himself upright again, he took a deep breath and nodded.

“Do it.”


	45. Carry On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inexperienced help is better than no help. Sort of.  
> Also, Genesis does not want to take his medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap this got LONG.  
> Think of it as me setting up dominoes.  
> We'll flick them over very shortly.

Of course, the volunteer soldiers were ready long before the civilians. Infants and the elderly could not be forced to comply to a schedule, and it was hard to tell them they couldn’t take as many of their scanty possessions with them as they would have liked.

“If you can’t carry it yourself, it can’t come,” Sephiroth told them sternly. It wasn’t as if the battered articles of furniture were good for anything beyond firewood. There had been grumbling and reluctance, but they did as they were told.

Elfe seemed no worse for wear despite last night’s adventure. Vincent was still favoring his left arm somewhat, but had flatly refused any sort of medication, particularly if it came packaged in a needle. The set of his jaw and the expression of grim determination made Sephiroth think of Lazard after he had lost his leg. His old CO had also refused painkillers, insisting that the discomfort was grounding and gave him something to fight. Perhaps Vincent felt the same way? If Sephiroth were to be honest with himself, he probably should not have brought him along. He had wanted the Turk to come for personal reasons. Had he been thinking, it would have occurred to him that the desert camp might be too similar to the halls of the old science department, of which Sephiroth also had decidedly unpleasant memories, though his were farther back in his past. He had been twelve before the science department had moved from the old brick box to the freshly-built 67th floor of the new Shinra building. The distance of almost fifteen years had blunted the pain, but for Vincent, the ordeal was still fresh. The decision had been selfish, and he resolved not to make the same mistake again.

“Commander,” Sephiroth said, pausing his work of loading one of the chocobo-drawn carts. “How’s your hand?”

She looked at him, a crate of carefully packed medical supplies in her arms, and blinked, evidently trying to work out if he was trying to insult her or not. Shoving the crate onto the cart, she shrugged. “Fine. How’s the Turk?”

“Better, thanks to you,” he told her, and meant it. She blinked again and climbed up onto the cart to make more room.

“He do that often?” she asked.

“More than I would like,” Sephiroth hedged, passing another crate full of supplies up to her. “I shouldn’t have brought him along.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she shrugged again. “Nobody can predict what’ll set off a flashback.”

“I _did_ know,” Sephiroth insisted. “Rather, I should have known. Who drags a POW to a prison?”

“Yeah, okay, that probably wasn’t the greatest idea, but it all worked out. He’s okay, I’m okay, everyone’s okay. Just, you know, don’t do it again.”

“But I--” he began, but Commander Verdot cut him off.

“Look,” she told him, “I know Shinra’s been telling you how perfect you are for the last thirty years, but even the Great General Sephiroth can make a mistake. Learn from it and let it go. Okay?”

Biting his lip against a smile, he nodded and passed her another box.

\--

Even with the volunteers helping, it was well after midday before the last of the civilians were ferried across the sand. Daylight notwithstanding, they would have to move on. Such a large group of civilians on foot and two commandeered chocobo carts full of supplies would not move quickly. Not only that: as subtle as the incline was, the journey would be entirely uphill. It would be dark before they arrived at Corel, but Sephiroth resolved that they would not spend a night in the open.

He arranged the volunteer soldiers and his own troops before and behind the civilians. They’d emptied the entire internment camp and half the prison, but to him the numbers seemed small. Still, it was better than nothing. Although he did not anticipate an attack, it did not hurt to be prepared. Himself, Commander Verdot, and her father led the group. Genesis and his men brought up the rear with Zack, Vincent, and Azul. He would have liked to have them all under his eye, to be able to look and know that they were safe, but such a thing was impossible. They were all adults, trained professionals, leaders of their respective branches in their own right. He could trust them to look after themselves as well as the newly-liberated civilians.

“You alright, darlin’?” Veld asked. Turning his head, Sephiroth noticed Commander Verdot trudging along next to her father, arms crossed beneath her white cloak. The pace he’d set was not strenuous, the grade of the path through the grasslands not dreadfully steep, yet sweat beaded her brow beneath her bangs.

“I’m fine,” she panted.

“Felicia…” Veld began.

“Dad, there’s nothing to be done,” she insisted, breathless. “I’ll have Fuhito look at my hand the minute we get back to Corel. Right now, all we can do is keep walking.”

Except she seemed to be in no condition to do so. Despite leaning on her father’s shoulder, she stumbled and collapsed to her knees, breathing short and heavy.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Veld told her gently, trying to pull her to her feet. “The days when I could play piggyback with you are long over. Upsy-daisy.”

Looping her good arm over his shoulders, Veld tried to lift her, but didn’t get very far. As he had said, the time when he could lift her in his arms had passed. With her sword belted at her hip, she probably weighed more than he did. She gritted her teeth against a cry of pain, doubled over the hand that bore the materia. Even her own formidable will could not force her legs to take another step.

Unstrapping Masamune from his shoulders, Sephiroth presented her to Veld. “Will you hold her for me?”

The Turk blinked and dumbly took the sword, holding it awkwardly in both hands. Pulling his hair over one shoulder, Sephiroth crouched in front of Commander Verdot.

“I am not a white horse,” he told her, turning his back and pulling her good hand around his neck, “but we must make do.”

Standing, he hooked a hand behind each of her knees, hoisting her onto his back. For a moment she lay flat against him, her arm curled tightly just below his throat. No doubt the movement had made her dizzy, and he hoped she would not faint.

“Are you alright?” Sephiroth asked, trying to look over his shoulder at her. Her face half-hidden in his collar, he did not have to crane his neck too far. After a minute her arm unclenched, and she lifted her head and nodded.

“Yeah,” she told him, collecting herself somewhat. “Yeah, I’m okay. By the way…” she added softly, “you can just call me ‘Elfe’.”

Sephiroth nodded, offering her a brief smile before turning to face the looming mountains. He had no way to know if the sudden heat in his face was visible, and did not care to add to it by having her witness it.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said to Veld, who shook himself and then fell into step beside them.

For another hour they walked in silence. Veld kept glancing over, worried about his daughter. Elfe did her best to behave as if riding on the backs of former enemies was something she did routinely. Pinching his sides with her legs let her hang on without using her hands, and she tried to hold herself upright as if riding a chocobo and not a fellow human being. However, even this wore her out, and she slumped against him, head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you need me to stop?” he asked her quietly.

She shook her head without lifting it. “No. I’m okay.”

Sephiroth was familiar with her definition of ‘okay’; it was similar to his. If one was not in immediate peril of expiring on the spot, was not missing a limb, or bleeding profusely from a major artery, then ‘okay’ was an acceptable description of one’s state of being.

“I don’t get you,” she said, making him cock his ear toward her. “What’s the the Great Sephiroth doing deserting the company that built him, liberating political prisoners, and carrying his arch nemesis around on his back?”

Sephiroth could feel the heat gathering, and hoped she would note notice the flush creeping up his neck that was usually hidden by his hair. He’d always hated the celebrity that had grown up around him for no reason he could discern.

“I don’t actually like killing,” he told her honestly. “Fighting? Sure. Genesis, Colonel Hewley, and I used to spar all the time. It was fun.”

“Hewley?” she echoed. “You mean Angeal?”

Sephiroth nodded. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I try not to use his given name. Doing so would disturb his spirit,” he explained. “Anyway, I don’t like killing, I wasn’t built like a machine, these people were imprisoned unjustly, and you are not and never have been my arch nemesis.”

She was silent for a long moment before he felt a small chuckle as her diaphragm bounced against his back.

“I’m insulted,” she said, and Sephiroth wasn’t sure if she was teasing him or not. “Don’t you hate Avalanche? Don’t you hate _me?_ We’ve caused Shinra a lot of trouble over the years.”

Sephiroth shook his head. “Why should I hate you? Yes, you’ve made a nuisance of yourself to Shinra, but not to me.”

“I haven’t, huh?” she seemed bemused. “Not even now?”

He shrugged as well as he could with her arm around his shoulders. “Not even now. You’re not that heavy.”

Evidently she had nothing to say to that, and for many minutes remained silent.

“I don’t understand,” she said at length. “I’m grateful you didn’t let us get slaughtered in the battle with Deepground, and I still can’t believe you didn’t engage us when we came to occupy Corel, then you let the big guy live, and to top it off you took off your sword so you could carry me. I don’t get it,” she repeated, her tone a strange mix of pain and confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

He glanced back at her, twisting his neck to meet her eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

\--

 

It was hours after they had departed, nearing sunset, when his PHS rang. He had to shift his hold on Elfe in order to dig the phone out of his back pocket.

“Sir?” Tseng’s voice was tinny and scratchy over the poor signal. “We have a situation.”

“What is it?” Sephiroth asked, already feeling himself tensing for battle.

“I’m afraid I can’t send anyone to you just now. The corpses-” Sephiroth relaxed ever so slightly knowing the issue could not swing a sword “-they haven’t disintegrated yet.”

“Strange,” he agreed. “If it will not endanger your men, collect the bodies and burn them.”

“We’ve already begun that, Sir,” Tseng replied. “But a number of Turks, Avalanche, and infantry have come down with a strange illness. They were wearing appropriate protective gear, but it didn’t do them any good. Also, several people who haven’t been anywhere near the bodies have become ill. We’ve done our best to keep those infected quarantined, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“Do you know what it is?” Alarm bells were already going off in the back of Sephiroth’s head, but he wanted to make sure.

“No, Sir. Some kind of rash with high fever. No one’s died yet, and we’re doing our best to keep it that way. If you haven’t sent anyone toward Corel, I’d advise you to keep therem where they are.”

“Too late,” Sephiroth tried to keep the disgust from his voice. “We’re already in sight of the town; perhaps another hour.” Wait a minute. “What kind of rash?”

“Sort of brown-black and oozing.”

Sephiroth’s insides went cold. He’d only heard of such a thing once before in the files Veld had smuggled to him. Surely it couldn’t be…?

“What about the SOLDIERs?”

“They’re fine.”

“Cancel my order concerning your men. Have SOLDIERs only dispose of the remaining bodies at once. Absolutely _no one_ else is to handle the corpses. Keep everyone affected quarantined, and make sure the villagers stay _away_ from anything even remotely having to do with the battle site.”

“...do you know what it is, Sir?”

“I don’t know,” Sephiroth confessed, “but I have an idea.”

“Any and all information would be helpful, Sir.”

“...have you ever heard of Geostigma?”

 

\--

 

It seemed to take forever to arrive back at Corel, particularly once the sun had sunk behind the mountains. Tseng was ready and waiting for him with an update. Elfe still on his back, Sephiroth didn’t engage with him immediately. First, he had the volunteers separate from the civilians, and then see that quarters were found for both groups. Once lodgings had been found for everyone, he had Zack take the volunteers to be integrated into the Shinra-Avalanche ranks. (They should really come up with a more collective title for themselves. Once things calmed down, there was no reason that Avalanche and Shinra shouldn’t continue to work together. However, such speculation would have to wait.) Finally, he turned his attention toward the Turk. Tseng blinked at the woman lying half comatose across his shoulders, but said nothing. On the point of speaking, Tseng broke off and looked up as a deeper shadow fell over them both.

“Excuse me, General,” Azul said without a salute, his arms full. “Colonel Rhapsodos ain’t feelin’ well. Where c’n I take him?”

“I tell you, I’m fine,” Genesis wheezed, clearly in pain. Apparently the Colonel had been experiencing problems similar to Elfe’s, and likewise had the same definition of ‘okay’. Sephiroth tried not to roll his eyes at this.

“The locals have graciously offered us space within the hospital,” Tseng provided, pointing to the little gray stone building. “Both Shinra and Avalanche medical officers are assisting the Corel physicians, and we’ve set up a separate care unit in one of the wards for those who’ve fallen ill from dealing with the Deepground corpses.”

“Good,” Sephiroth said. “Let me see to Genesis and Elfe first. I won’t be a moment.”

“Sir,” Tseng said with a slightly bewildered salute. Watching the General retreat toward the hospital, the Avalanche commander on his back, Tseng could not help but wonder:

“ _...Elfe?_ ”

 

\--

 

The Corel Hospital reminded Sephiroth distantly of Old Midgar General. Both had been built a good fifty years or more before he had been born, and little seemed to have changed. The walls were of pristine white plaster, the floors mercilessly clean and polished- if creaking- wood. Although the ceilings were decently high, Azul had to walk half-crouched to avoid the overhead lights and elbow sideways through the doors. There was a rather conspicuous “QUARANTINE” sign in front of one set of doors. Turning away from it, Sephiroth hefted Elfe on his shoulders and marched past a nurse who directed him to the area allotted to Shinra and Avalanche. Corel had lent the combined forces one of the old-fashioned wards. The single room was long and narrow, with rows of little white iron beds lining each wall.

The ward seemed to be largely unoccupied, although there were one or two beds that held a soldier. One appeared to be suffering from a broken or sprained ankle, if the cast on his foot was any indication. What was wrong with the other one, Sephiroth could not immediately tell. She was covered to the chin by the bedclothes and appeared to be asleep. A familiar, bespectacled face bent over her, judging her progress. He nearly dropped his clipboard when he looked up from his patient.

“Elfe!” Fuhito cried, quite forgetting himself and rushing to his commander’s side.

“I’m _fine_ she insisted,” nearly fainting a second time even as she slid off Sephiroth’s back. “It’s just…”

“It’s just your makou levels, I know, I know,” Fuhito sighed, looping her good arm over his head and half-dragging her toward one of the cots. Apparently he’d done this several times before. Veld, who’d followed them in, hastily shoved Masamune back into Sephiroth’s hands and hurried to help his daughter.

“Do you need anything?” Sephiroth asked, reshouldering Masamune. Fuhito gave him a look that held somewhat less disdain than it previously had.

“No.” A pause. “Thank you. For seeing she returned safely.”

Sephiroth nodded as he might to Tseng and turned to take his leave, catching Fuhito’s surprised blink as he did so.

“Come,” Sephiroth beckoned to Azul and headed farther down the ward. “We’ll give them some privacy.”

 

\--

 

“I _told_ you,” Fuhito grumbled, helping Elfe to sit down. “When will you listen?”

“Never,” she replied, apparently feeling well enough to argue with him. “Just shoot me up. I’ll be fine.”

“Shoot you up?” Veld echoed, trying not to sound as suspicious and horrified as he felt.

“It’s just makou, Daddy,” Efle told him patiently as Fuhito filled a syringe. “Would you mind telling Shears I’m back? I want to talk to him.”

“He can wait,” Veld said sternly, putting an arm around his daughter to keep her upright as Fuhito pressed the needle beneath her skin. It took her a few breaths and a shake of her head to clear the fog that a makou treatment often brought on.

“No, he can’t. I want and update on the troops. Please? I don’t need to talk to him for long, but I’m the boss. I need to know what happened while I wasn’t here.”

Veld exhaled through his nose, clearly unhappy, but nodded. “Alright.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, offering a smile that seemed to do much to ease his concerns.

“I think he must really be your father,” Fuhito observed once the curtain had fallen closed and the Turk’s footsteps had faded into the distance. “He’s every bit as bull-headed as you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I come by my winning personality and powers of persuasion naturally.”

Both of them chuckled at this. Allowing herself to relax somewhat, Elfe propped the bed pillow against the headboard and leaned back. Although she could have done it herself, she let Fuhito draw her gloves off. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he noticed the increased size of the materia fragment embedded in her hand.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“What you talkin’ about?” Shears asked, ducking around the curtain that had been drawn around the bed. Then he saw the back of Elfe’s hand. “Whoa…”

“One of the inmates had a Zirconiade shard powering her prosthetic arm,” Elfe explained. “She was also treated by Professor Hojo. According to her, he intended me to have the additional shards and had given one to her for safekeeping.”

“So there may be others holding the pieces for you,” Fuhito concluded. “Do you know who? Did she?”

Elfe shook her head. “No, but odds are high they were all treated by Professor Hojo. He’s a researcher, not a medical doctor, so I can’t imagine he’s treated too many people with materia and prosthetics.”

“Still, how on earth would we ever get such information?”

“We’ll ask Daddy,” she said simply.

Fuhito blinked, then nodded. “Yes, he would indeed be the person to ask. As a Turk, he has full access to the Shinra archives. I cannot imagine he’d say ‘no’ to his little girl, especially if it would improve her health.”

“For how long, though?” Shears wanted to know. “I know what you two been plannin’. I don’t like it, but if we gotta go another round with Deepground…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“I can’t do anything without the other two shards,” she reminded him. “At present, I’m not much better off than I was before. I can’t transform, and I certainly can’t summon the power of Zirconiade.”

“Wait, transform?” Fuhito echoed.

“Yes, remember how the Turk- my dad’s friend, Agent Valentine- transformed into a Behemoth during the last battle?”

Shears nodded, a white grin briefly splitting his tan face. “Hell yeah, that was awesome! How’d he do that?”

“He has a materia in his body as well, a whole one: Chaos.”

Fuhito’s eyes grew wide. “Chaos? The squire of Omega? God of Death and Decay? Elfe, he’s the first to appear, the harbinger of the end of the old earth and the beginning of the new! _Zirconiade shall purge the blighted earth with fire,_ ” he quoted, “ _and lay waste to the Planet’s enemies._ ”

“I know, calm down,” she ordered, not wanting his academic fervor to run away with him, but she was already too late. Had there been room, he would have been pacing about excitedly. Constricted by the curtain surrounding the bed, all he could do was stand up, realize he had nowhere to go, sit down again, and repeat the process several times.

“Don’t you see?” he went on, grinning as he spoke. “It’s ordained! The appearance of Chaos means that we’re right on track. Chaos will pave the way, bringing low those who intend the planet harm. Alpha and Kosmos will protect those who have been loyal, and Omega will gather the righteous to protect them before Zirconiade obliterates all that would harm the Planet. If Chaos has come to us, that’s the first step done! We are meant to release Zirconiade! She’ll wipe Shinra off the face of the…” he trailed off noting Elfe’s expression. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

“I know you didn’t,” she said, reaching for him with one hand, for Shears with the other. Both accepted her outstretched hands and took seats on either side of the bed. Messrs Brains and Brawn, her Right and Left hand; self-appointed bodyguards, advisors, and honorary big brothers. It was no secret Shears harbored a boyish crush on her. Fuhito also held an unrequited affection, but it was more toward Zirconiade and less for the woman who served as her host. Although she loved them both with all her heart, it was a sisterly love. As leader of Avalanche, she could take no husband besides her work, no lover but her sword. She had let Shears kiss her once, when they were younger, before she had become commander. Either one of them would make someone very happy, but that someone could not be her.

“It’s still a possibility, but only as a last resort. The idea is to heal the planet, not necessarily wipe Shinra off the face of the earth. At present, we’ve got a truce with them. So long as they honor it, I’d like to see if we can avoid breaking out the big guns. Besides, we’re still two pieces short. I will ask Daddy about who might be hiding the remaining shards, but for now, we need to concentrate on more immediate matters.

“Fuhito,” she went on, “I want you to speak with Agent Valentine about Chaos. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, send him to me. I’m the Chief’s little girl, I can’t imagine he’ll refuse to help me. Shears,” she turned to the other man, “what’s going on with this illness? How many of our people have been affected, and what can we do about it?”

“Well,” he said uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “it ain’t good news.”

 

\--

 

“Put me _down_ ,” Genesis insisted, struggling feebly. “I’m _fine_. I can walk.”

“That may be, but you need rest,” Sephiroth told him, using his best General voice.

“I already know what’s wrong with me,” Genesis groused, waving away the objections with his good hand. “I’ll take a nap if it will make you happy, but there’s no sense in me taking up a bed here. Let it go to someone who really needs it.”

“Currently, they appear to have a surplus,” Sephiroth countered, unimpressed. Biting back his own smile, Azul deposited Genesis on one of the vacant cots and then went to summon a nurse. To Sephiroth’s mild surprise, Rui came in, her dusty T-shirt and jeans gone, replaced by the pale blue scrubs and white smock of a nurse’s uniform.

“Hello again,” Sephiroth greeted her with a polite nod.

“Hi,” she said with a grin.

“I’m fine,” Genesis told her automatically.

“Nice to met you,” Shalua replied smoothly.

“He has an old injury,” Sephiroth went on, unrepentant, and Genesis gave him a sullen look. “If you could see that he has fresh bandages and anything else he might require?”

“How about a pint of blood?” Genesis suggested. Sephiroth just looked at him, momentarily stricken dumb. Shalua glanced from one to the other, confused.

“Genesis,” Sephiroth began, “I’m not sure that’s--”

Genesis cut him off. “At least let me try it? I’m dying anyway. What have I got to lose?”

Not much, Sephiroth reflected, but he had no desire to lose a friend with whom he had only recently been reunited. Shalua seemed a bit unnerved by his remark, but said nothing as she helped Genesis out of his coat and shirt with Sephiroth’s assistance. As she unwound the bandages, Sephiroth winced. Although the wound was not festering, there was a decidedly unpleasant odor. The old cut from Angeal’s broken sword had left a deep laceration that began across his shoulder and sliced down over his collar bone. Hollander had stitched the jagged edges closed, but the flesh had never completely pulled itself back together. There was no blood or pus, but lymph continued to weep from the still open wound. Heavy bruising ringed the edges of the fissure in his flesh, dark and inflamed; surely just as painful as the cut itself.

“Now there’s a flesh wound,” Shalua remarked, carefully examining Genesis’ shoulder. “I’ve only heard rumors, so you’ll have to fill me in on what really happened. Does this hurt?” Carefully, she pressed at the edges of the wound. Dirty brownish fluid trailed from the broken skin and he winced.

“A little,” he managed, trying not to gasp. “It’s an old injury,” he went on. “I’ve had worse, but for some reason, it’s never healed properly. Indeed, it’s affected the rest of me. Professor Hollander tried treating me, but nothing worked, although for all I know, he was just experimenting further. I believe my half-brother’s blood may have bought me some time, but that’s all. Hollander thought a transfusion of Sephiroth’s blood might reverse my condition, but he was never able to test that theory.”

“Do you two have similar blood types?” Shalua asked, wiping away the ooze.

Sephiroth shook his head. “No. I wanted to donate my blood when the accident happened, but Hollander insisted I wasn’t compatible.”

“Well, why don’t we make sure?” the little nurse suggested. “Sounds like he wasn’t the most honest guy. Maybe he wasn’t being completely straight with you? Do you happen to know what your blood types are?”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to reply, but found he had no answer. The joke among the lab technicians was that he had Type J blood. Now he realized it was a reference to Jenova, but whether that overrode all else, he didn’t know. Genesis was wearing an equally blank look, which made Sephiroth feel marginally less foolish.

“It’s okay,” Shalua told them brightly. “We can find out.”

While she went to fetch the necessary equipment, Sephiroth went through the motions required to get out of his coat: taking Masamune from his back, unclipping his pauldrons, removing his gloves and gauntlets, and finally shrugging out of the coat itself. Shalua returned just as he was draping it over the foot of Genesis’ bed and she stopped short and blinked, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink. Sephiroth fought not to blush himself, suddenly embarrassed. The task was made easier by Genesis’ snerk.

“Try not to swoon,” he quipped. “If you faint, who will revive the nurse?”

Reaching, Sephiroth gently shoved Genesis’ head forward, scruffing his faded hair in the process.

“Hey!” the Colonel protested, doing his best to smooth his hair with his good hand.

Shalua was now actively struggling not to snicker. “Man, _nobody_ is going to believe this,” she commented, reaching for Genesis’ hand first.

It did not take long for her to perform the simple blood test, but she kept consulting the reference card as if confused.

“I’m not compatible, am I?” Sephiroth asked, stomach sinking. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d hoped such would not be the case.

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to decide,” she answered slowly. “I didn’t realize Type J blood was for real. I’d heard some of the technicians from Shinra joke about it, but...yeah. You’re both Type J, so you should be fine.”

Genesis grinned, sitting up a little straighter in bed. “Excellent!”

Allowing himself a smile, Sephiroth obligingly held out his arm to Shalua.

“You should lie down,” she told him, pushing the curtain aside just enough so that the next empty cot was accessible. “I know you’re a super-soldier and all, but blood pressure and blood sugar do not discriminate. If you fall down, there is _no way_ I can pick you up by myself.”

He had not planned on arguing with her, and so obediently lay down and pointedly turned his head the other direction. Although not looking made the sharp prick of the needle through his skin more obvious, it was still easier than if he tried to watch. It wasn’t the sight of his own blood that bothered him. He’d bathed in oceans of the stuff in Wutai- some of it his, but most of it not- and it hadn’t really bothered him. What he didn’t like was the foreign object sticking in his flesh, feeling ten times larger than it really was, and knowing he could not pull it out. Normally, the Professor only drew off a few ounces, just enough to fill a syringe. Genesis, however, would need more than that. A decided headache had set in by the time Shalua finally pulled the needle out of his arm.

“Tadaa…” she smiled, putting away the implements she’d used to collect his blood and setting up others. “Your turn,” she said to Genesis. Obligingly, he gave her his arm. Once she had hooked the little bag of blood on a rack above his head- she was almost too short to reach it- she slid the needle into his elbow and stood back.

“Let me know if anything feels off,” she told him. “Don’t be all heroic. If something feels weird, I _need to know_ , okay?”

Genesis turned the nod into an informal bow. “I understand.”

“Good.” Turning to Sephiroth, she announced: “You’re cleared for duty, Sir, so long as you don’t feel light-headed or anything. You should get a snack and something to drink, just to make sure.”

“I will,” he promised, shrugging back into his jacket.

“What about me?” Genesis asked. “What about my men?”

“You get to stay right there,” Shalua told him in a tone of command that belied her size and age. “You’re not going anywhere until we see how the transfusion affects you. Also, I need to re-wrap your shoulder.”

“I’ll see to your men,” Sephiroth assured him. “Listen to the nurse and rest now so you can give orders later.”

Genesis slumped against the headboard, a sulky scowl creasing his face.

“Behave,” Sephiroth warned him. “I’ll be back to look in on you later.” Turning to Rui, he allowed himself a crooked smile and told her: “Don’t let him push you around.”

She grinned and saluted. Returning salute, he pulled the curtain around Genesis’ bed and left.

 

\--

 

Tseng was waiting for him outside. It was full night by this time, but he’d already put off his report for too long.

“Please, tell me you know what this is?” Tseng asked him.

Sephiroth didn’t reply right away, the two CD’s still carefully stored in his jacket pocket suddenly seeming much heavier than a couple of slices of plastic had any right to be. Before leaving the prison, he’d borrowed a computer and reviewed the files concerning the ill-fated female recruits and the surrogates that had carried his younger brothers.

“I know you saw the SOLDIER files. Did you see the ones concerning the female recruits?”

Tseng shook his head. “No. I was unaware there ever were any.”

Rather than go into detail on that account, Sephiroth gave him the short version: “There are records of soldiers having an adverse reaction to Jenova. It involves a muddy rash, high fever, and if left untreated, death. For some reason, the risk of fatality is higher in women.”

Tseng had gone very quiet. “So that’s why you only wanted SOLDIERs to handle the bodies. They’ve already been infused with Jenova; they’re immune.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Yes.”

“If we could treat those affected with Jenova, would that stop the infection?”

“No,” Sephiroth was adamant. “No, we’re not doing that. We couldn’t anyway, not without breaking into the Shinra building. What we need to do is kill Jenova and quickly before anyone succumbs.”

“You can survive it, and I’m pretty sure you can only get it once. Sort of like the measles or the Del Sol Plague.”

Sephiroth turned so quickly he felt a vertebrae pop in protest. Vincent had materialized out of the darkness to stand at his elbow.

“How do you know?” he asked.

Vincent shrugged. “I’ve had it.”

“What? Geostigma?”

The Turk nodded. “Yes.”

“How did you survive? You don’t carry any Jenova, do you?”

He shook his head. “No, but Chaos wasn’t gonna give up that easy.”

Of course. The summon materia had enabled him to survive the legendary disease that had wiped out the Cetra as a race. That made one more person who was immune, possibly two. Elfe now carried half a summon materia. It was likely she would be unaffected as well, but that still left a lot of other people to worry about.

“How many have been affected?” Sephiroth asked Tseng.

“Fifteen so far, and only three are completely incapacitated. At present, they’re alright if uncomfortable.”

“Very good. If you don’t mind, I’ll look in on them tomorrow. I won’t disturb them tonight.”

“Sir,” Tseng saluted and retreated to his own quarters.

“Come with me tomorrow,” Sephiroth told Vincent. “You can’t be hurt by it and I’d like your opinion since you know something about Geostigma.”

“I only caught it, doesn’t mean I know much about it,” Vincent shrugged. “I’m no scientist.”

“Still, I’d like…” he trailed off into silence as realization struck him: he was doing it again. Vincent might be immune physically, but what about his mind? His emotions? Would wandering a sick ward full of people suffering from a potentially fatal disease upset him? It was entirely likely.

“I’m sorry,” Sephiroth apologized. “You needn’t come with me if you’d rather not. I understand completely if you don’t want to.”

Vincent only shrugged. “I’ll come. Geostigma won’t hurt me.”

 _No,_ Sephiroth thought, _but the past can._


	46. Outbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geostigma is not the only problem.

It was not Strife but Tseng who met him on the other side of his bedroom door- such as it was. The officers had virtually overrun the inn, the rest of the troops sheltering in either commandeered outbuildings or tents. Rank brought a certain amount of privilege, but not necessarily privacy. He was already sharing the room with Zack and probably Genesis once he recovered enough to leave the clinic. There was no use trying to persuade the latter to stay put until he’d healed completely, and there was enough room for a third person. Sort of.

“Sir,” Tseng greeted him with a curt salute, and Sephiroth mirrored the gesture. A brief flash of fair skin in the darkened hallway caught his attention and he blinked, squinting at the shadows behind Tseng’s shoulder. A set of red eyes glowed to life like a pair of candle flames, the rest of Vincent materializing as he stepped into square of light cast by the bedroom lamp.

“Valentine,” he said simply. “You are not required to accompany me.”

“I know,” the Turk said simply. Tseng seemed confused by their interchange, but said nothing more than: “Shall we?”

Sephiroth nodded. “Lead the way.”

As predicted, Tseng took them through the gray predawn to the quarantined ward in the Corel Hospital. A 3rd Class was standing guard outside the locked doors.

“Here I must leave you,” Tseng said with a small bow. Sephiroth returned it.

“Vincent,” Tseng went on, “Fuhito would like to speak with you at your convenience.”

Vincent nodded. “Thank you.”

Once Tseng had departed, Sephiroth turned to Vincent. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Surprisingly, the older man blushed, annoyance crossing his features. “I’m not made of glass,” he said testily. “I’ll be fine.”

Sephiroth had heard that phrase so often the words were beginning to sound like gibberish. Still, unless he ordered Vincent to leave him, he couldn’t very well stop the man from accompanying him. Besides, at the bottom of his heart, he wanted the Turk at his side.

As Tseng had said, there were perhaps fifteen to twenty beds occupied. Most of the patients seemed to be only mildly incapacitated, as if stricken with a severe cold: just miserable enough to be unable to accomplish anything. Most were still asleep, but a handful were already sitting up and eating breakfast or looking at the local newspaper. As in the grainy color photos on the disks, those afflicted bore a runny brown-black rash, as if they’d lost a fight with a mud puddle.

The staff caring for the sick appeared to be mostly Thirds with a few Seconds, the First Class SOLDIERs being entirely too short in supply. A suspiciously blue uniform, however, caught his eye near the back of the ward.

“ _Cloud!_ ” Sephiroth cried, heart surging into his throat. The boy looked up, terror seizing his features and snapped-to with a desperate salute as his General bore down on him. His friends were here too; Sephiroth had not noticed them right away, as they were hidden by the half-drawn curtains. Aeris sat perched on the edge of the soldier’s bed, and Tifa poised in a statuesque picture of confusion, the patient’s breakfast porridge in her hands.

“ _Out!_ All of you!” he barked. “Who let you in here?” he demanded, ushering them toward the door.

“W-we’ve been here since yesterday!” Cloud stammered, certain he’d done something wrong, but unable to figure out what.

“What about his breakfast?” Tifa protested, bowl of oatmeal still in her hands. Sephiroth snatched it from her and shoved it at one of the patients who seemed surprised to have breakfast foisted on him with so much force.

“Someone else will take care of it. Is there a decontamination procedure?” he asked a bewildered Second who seemed to be in charge. 

The SOLDIER saluted. “Yes, Sir. They’ll need to go through the decontamination unit before leaving, all of you will.” He pointed to a small pop-up structure built of aluminum poles and plastic curtains that resembled a camp shower. Similar to those used by workmen extracting hazardous materials like asbestos from a building site to ensure that they did not carry the toxins home with them.

“Good. Ladies first.” With that Sephiroth shoved Aeris into the little phone booth-sized chamber. He could hear her coughing on the chemical spray. The mist was breathable- barely- but it would ensure that any germs or particles would not leave the ward with her.

“Are there any other non-SOLDIERs in here who aren’t patients?” Sephiroth asked as Aeris exited the chemical shower. Tifa looked at him questioningly and he nodded for her to go next.

The Second swallowed and shook his head. “No Sir, these three were volunteers since last night. I had in mind to send them on their way later this morning.”

“They will leave _now_ ,” Sephiroth said darkly. “I don’t want anyone else in here without a temperature or a SOLDIER uniform, do I make myself clear?”

“Yessir,” the Second said with a shaky salute, his voice having risen a good half-step.

He waited until Cloud had nervously followed Tifa into the chamber before turning his attention back to the sick troops. It wasn’t easy to tell from T-shirts and haircuts alone, but the bulk seemed to be Shinra infantry with a handful of Avalanche and one or two people he could not identify. He fervently hoped they were not Corel citizens.

“What do you remember?” he asked Vincent.

The Turk shrugged. “Not much. Mostly I remember feeling tired and miserable. I was told I had a fever, but I couldn’t seem to get warm. I don’t know how long I was ill, probably no more than a few days, but it seemed like forever.” He also remembered waking up on a slab in the morgue with a scalpel sticking out of his chest, and Hojo standing over him screaming like a girl, but he wasn’t about to tell Sephiroth _that_.

There were only two women present, both of them still curled up asleep beneath their blankets. They had to either be locals, or Avalanche, as there were no women in the Shinra military for this exact reason. They had been placed in cots next to each other in the rear corner of the room, probably to give them some additional privacy in a ward full of men. Not wanting to frighten them awake, Sephiroth leaned as far as he dared over the foot of the cot, craning to make out the face of the nearest woman. A dirty splotch marked her cheek, as if she’d been punched and the bruise had become something more serious. Straightening, he beckoned to the Second who hurried over.

“Pay special attention to these two,” he instructed, keeping his voice low so as not to wake them. “This illness is harder on females. See to their comfort and anything else they may need.”

“Sir,” the Second agreed, wondering. The instructions had been as soft as his earlier orders had been harsh. Sephiroth left the SOLDIER standing bewildered, fingers still poised at his temple.

Stepping through the decontamination unit, Vincent behind him, Sephiroth discovered Cloud, Tifa, and Aeris still clustered on the other side.

“Sorry, Sir,” Cloud apologized with a nervous salute. Sephiroth returned it, and the boy let his arm drop.

“We don’t need anyone else getting sick,” he explained. “Geostigma affects those who don’t carry any Jenova. That means only SOLDIERs are immune, and everyone else is at risk.” _particularly you two,_ he thought, looking at the girls.

“What about Mr. Valentine?” Tifa asked. “He’s not a SOLDIER.”

Turning to let Vincent to field that one, Sephiroth was saved the effort when Aeris spoke up.

“His friends are protecting him,” she said as if it were perfectly obvious. The others just stared at her. Vincent, strangely, seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

“What?” she asked.

Biting his own lip to hold back a smile, Sephiroth walked past them, Vincent right behind.

 

\--

 

“I appreciate this, Mr. Valentine,” Fuhito said, tactfully turning his back and fiddling with various implements while Vincent got out of his jacket, shirt, and tie. “I’ve been warned by Mr. Verdot that you’re not especially fond of hospitals. I’ll do my best to make this as brief and painless as possible.”

“Just keep the needles to yourself,” Vincent told him, feeling naked as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. It was only because of Veld and Felicia that he had agreed to this. If he could help his best friend’s daughter by letting her pet MD look him over, then that was what he would do.

Fuhito, however, took the remark in jest and offered him a surprisingly benign smile. He couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising a good inch when he saw the mass of scars surrounding the materia, but kept his mouth shut. His eyes lingered on it for a good minute before he reluctantly directed his attention elsewhere.

It had been a while since Vincent’s last physical; 1965, if he remembered correctly, back when Old Midgar General had been the tallest building in the neighborhood. He had been prepared to cringe upon being touched, to shrink from the younger man’s gaze. Indeed, he did flinch instinctively when Fuhito laid latex-covered fingers on his wrist.

“Excuse me,” the younger man apologized, backing off at once. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Vincent blinked, having not expected that. The physicians of his youth had been kind if blustering, and a bit overbearing the way men accustomed to giving orders sometimes were. Perhaps this was what came of having a female commander? Nerves steadier than they had been, Vincent offered his flesh arm and Fuhito tried again, lightly touching his fingers to the inside of Vincent’s wrist.

The young man’s brow furrowed, glasses sliding down his nose. “That’s strange. I’m not getting anything. May I?”

Vincent nodded, but still had to force himself not to flinch as Fuhito put two fingers under his jaw.

“Well, that’s odd,” he said, perplexed. “I can feel the blood moving, but there’s no pulse that I can measure. I assume that’s something to do with the...implant?”

“You’d know better than I,” Vincent shrugged.

It wasn’t easy to sit still as Fuhito went over him: taking his blood pressure and temperature, listening to what was left of his heart, and testing his reflexes. That left only the materia to examine.

“Do you mind?” Fuhito asked again, pulling over a stool. Seated, he was eye-level with the materia in Vincent’s chest.

“S’why I’m here.” In the back of his head, he felt both Gallian and Chaos growl.

_Easy, guys._

Carefully, Fuhito prodded the scar tissue, traced the tortured veins with his fingers, and examined the ghosts of sutures made nearly thirty years ago.

“I apologize in advance if my curiosity gets the better of me,” he said without looking up. “The only other instance of this I’ve seen is Elfe, and her condition is quite different. If I may ask, how did this happen? War wound? There’s a lot of associated damage here.”

“Got shot point-blank with a forty-five,” Vincent told him flatly, doing his best to keep his breathing steady.

Fuhito winced, horrified. “Gods, you’re lucky to be alive then! I’m guessing your arm could not be saved?”

“No.”

For a moment, Fuhito just sat and stared at the stone in Vincent’s chest while Vincent became increasingly uncomfortable. Fuhito finally noticed the older man’s discomfort. Shaking himself, he stood.

“Please excuse me,” he said, removing his glasses and polishing them with a cloth, a nervous gesture he probably hoped would distract from the flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “I must admit to a fascination with Cetran legends and the old gods. Are you familiar with the work of Doctor’s Valentine and Crescent?”

“...I’ve heard of it,” Vincent said evasively, a sick feeling shivering in the pit of his stomach.

“Between the two of them, they translated several fragments of Cetran texts,” he began, picking up a battered notebook. “The various summons each appear to have had their own cults and regional followings. However, there are a number of summons who are less well-known. What little information that survives is fragmentary at best; a few scraps of texts, the defaced remains of friezes and murals, bits of broken statues, that sort of thing. Archeology concerning Chaos is especially rare, and it was on these artifacts that they focused their research.

“You see, the legends state that guardians of the Planet- the summons- will rise up to protect the earth when it is in danger. Chaos will be the first to appear…”

A different sort of agony struck Vincent that had nothing to do with fluorescent light and syringes. He froze, fingers tangled in his tie, watching Fuhito pronounce the words, but hearing his father’s voice:

_’Chaos the Lord of Entropy, god of Death and squire of Omega will precede his master. He will prepare the way for his siblings. Harvests will fail, the rain will dry up, and no more children will be born. There will be no more new life, and those nearing the end of their days will return to the Planet. His sister Cosmos will follow, collecting the seeds of all the living things that will not get the chance to blossom and grow on this earth. After her, Alpha, Mother of All, will gather her children together so that they may be spared. Lastly, Omega takes them in his arms and carries them safely across the sea of stars. Only then shall Zirconiade cast her burning blade into the earth, purging it of all that is unclean.’_

_That’s not even CLOSE,_ Chaos groused. Vincent shook himself, returning to earth with a jolt.

 _Idiot, where did he get that rubbish?_ It was not often Chaos offered commentary on anything, so when he did speak, the others listened.

 _From the remains of a temple wall, I think,_ Vincent answered, racking the recesses of his memory. How many times had he listened to his father elaborate excitedly about his research? Vincent had never minded when Grimoire Valentine went off on a scholarly tangent. He was not good at talking, and his father had a deep, pleasant voice that was neither patronizing nor condescending. Even if you hadn’t any idea what he was on about, he had had a way of hinting at the answers, of teasing the brain with clues and questions until you realized you understood after all. The ancient lore and legends were not as difficult to follow as many of his father’s other theories, and it was one area in which Vincent could offer his opinion without feeling stupid.

 _I don’t mean your sire,_ the Demon sneered. _He was not unintelligent for a mortal. He knew what he was talking about. This child, however…_

Fuhito was still talking, and Vincent had to reorient slightly, shifting his focus back to the outside world.

“You see, sir, your arrival proves our suspicions. Avalanche has long suspected that Shinra is draining the Planet, sapping it of its life energy to the point where things are decaying more rapidly than they can recover. Just look at the ring of parched earth surrounding Midgar, the barren spires of the Nibel Mountains, the rampant pollution in Junon. I’ve kept an eye out for several years in the vain hope that a sign would come, but who would have ever thought that Chaos himself would wander into my office?

“How did you come by the Chaos materia, anyway? It’s unbelievably rare. Do you know who installed it? Whatever gave them the idea?”

Vincent had expected to be asked awkward, personal questions, but had not known what answers he would give. The truth was he remembered very little of the incident that had fused Chaos’ spirit with his own. The only memories he had were unlikely to be of any help, unless Avalanche was interested in developing some new and highly unpleasant interrogation techniques. His instinct was to either invent a story, or remain silent. Though in some instances, the truth was often more unbelieveable.

“Dr. Crescent.”

Fuhito blinked. “Truly? Dr. Crescent had the materia? She performed the operation?”

Vincent nodded. “Yes. She and Professor Hojo.”

Fuhito’s jaw fell toward the floor. “I know Professor Hojo! I was one of his assistants before I decided Shinra was not for me. I wasn’t sorry to leave the company, but I was sorry to leave him. He’s a brilliant man.”

 _I told you he was an idiot,_ Chaos commented. Gallian growled in agreement. For some reason, Vincent had not expected this. The thought that this boy had trained under Hojo chilled him, sending a ripple of gooseflesh chasing over his bare skin. Quickly, he pulled his T-shirt back over his head.

“I think I understand now,” Fuhito went on. “Hiding such a powerful and dangerous materia would not be easy, but she must have trusted you to protect it, to use it wisely. The same was true for Professor Hojo and Elfe, but Zirconiade is the most exalted of her siblings. Putting so much power in a child would be pure folly, so he only implanted a single shard and entrusted the rest to three other people.”

Vincent was not at all sure that was the case, but let the young man continue.

“Your coming here proves that the time to use Zirconiade is drawing near. Once we find the other two materia shards, Elfe will be able to transform the way you do, and we can put a stop to this nonsense: Shinra, Jenova, everything.”

 _Stars and skies, he’s dumber than I thought!_ Chaos groaned.

“What do you mean?” Vincent asked them both at once.

 _Facebite?_ Gallian suggested.

“Zirconiade will cleanse the Planet of all that causes it harm,” Fuhito explained. “Shinra, makou reactors, and anything else that’s detrimental to the Planet’s health will be eradicated. It’s a last resort, and we’ll do our best to make sure it doesn’t come to that, but if it does…” he trailed off and stared at the materia now hidden beneath Vincent’s shirt and jacket. “You’re here. I feel confident we will need to call on Zirconiade. This is the way things are supposed to be.”

A cold feeling had gathered in the pit of Vincent’s stomach. He could feel Chaos’ incredulity as the Demon stared blankly at the young doctor.

_The idiot is serious. He actually thinks the destruction will be selective, that he can summon us out of order! Where is Cosmos? Where is Alpha? Omega? Who is carrying them around like so much spare change? Does he truly have no idea of the destruction he will unleash? This world is not yet ready to die. If he summons Zirconiade, she will destroy the planet and everyone on it! There will be no chance for recovery, for rebirth. The cycle will be broken and this planet will become little more than a bare rock floating in space._

From the look of it, no, he didn’t. However, it was not the fate of the world in general that was Vincent’s greatest concern. This boy, this student of Hojo’s, planned to use Zirconiade to achieve his own ends. He would summon this goddess of death to lay waste to Shinra, but the destruction would not stop there. Bound to Zirconiade as Vincent was to Chaos, it would be Elfe who would undergo the agony of transformation, her will and body cast aside like a mask. She was no more than a device to him, a weapon, something to be drawn and used at his own discretion. The boy didn’t seem to understand, or even care about what this would do to Elfe. His mad plan would get her killed, and Vincent could not allow that.

_Facebite?_

_Down._

Fuhito was still engrossed in his notebook, adding his most recent discoveries to a blank page.

“Does your commander agree with this?” Vincent asked.

“Yes,” Fuhito said without looking up. “It was her idea; hers and mine. Our baby, if you will.”

That remark _alone_ would have been enough for Veld. Unbidden the images rushed over him like a wave, sound and image crashing on every side, drowning him in memory: Lucrecia pregnant. The shot. The operation. The endless, relentless carousel of fluorescent lights, pain, blood, and darkness; waking and dreaming following one another so closely that it was no longer possible to tell which was which. The scars on his remaining arm no longer hurt. Perhaps he was dreaming now? He thought of Veld and his lost arm, lost wife, lost child. He thought of Felicia, and how she had lost her parents and come so close to losing her own life. Hojo had touched her. Hojo had treated her. Vincent’s borrowed guts clenched and knotted, blood raced through his damaged heart like a rain-swollen river. It rushed in his ears so loudly that he barely heard himself speak:

“If it doesn’t go the way you planned?”

The young doctor shrugged. “Few things go according to plan, but yes, I am willing to do what’s necessary for what I believe is right. Aren’t you?”

He looked up from his notes at last and blinked, surprised.

“Yes,” Vincent said, and pulled the trigger.


	47. Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an epic screw-up.  
> Communication is important, kids. Always read the directions, and remember to use your Words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with so many characters, this is not your standard Fuhito.  
> Which is kind of a shame, really.

Vincent watched calmly, almost detached, as if witnessing the scene from afar as Fuhito fell, a look of surprise lingering on his face. No sooner had he hit the floor than his body began to dissolve into mist and light, pyreflies spiraling up toward the ceiling before they too disappeared. All that was left was a blood spatter where he’d fallen, a spent shell casing, and the slug embedded in the far wall. His pen knife long gone, Vincent extended the claw of his metal hand’s index finger and crossed the floor to dig the bullet out of the wall. It would not take much to mop up the small puddle of blood. He had just pocketed the shell casing when Felicia burst through the door.

It took only one glance for her to figure out what had happened. Her tense, alert expression morphed into something infinitely more horrible. Her lips parted, jaw hanging, as her eyes went to the bloodstain, the hole in the wall, and then fell on him.

“You shot him.” It was not a question.

“He was going to hurt you,” Vincent said simply.

Confusion cut through the hurt for a moment, and she just stared at him. He watched as perplexity burned away into anger, fierce and hot. She lifted her right hand, and Vincent instinctively reached beneath his jacket for his gun, but got no farther. He stumbled back a step, a half-swallowed grunt escaping as she grabbed him by the throat.

“You killed him,” she whispered, fingers digging into his neck. “For no reason, you killed him.”

She was shorter than him by a full head; the whole of her hand barely as large as his palm, but her grip was vice-like. Had he not known better, he would have sworn she was the one with the metal hand.

“Was this Sephiroth’s idea?” she hissed. “Did he order you to do this? Is that why he was sucking up to me?”

Vincent looked at her, utterly lost. Lungs beginning to burn, he could not answer, but managed to shake his head. With a snarl, Felicia dropped him, and he crumbled to his knees, gasping for air.

 _Do you usually execute the beloveds of your partner’s children?_ Chaos asked, sounding strangely taken aback.

 _Shut up,_ Vincent thought back at him, still coughing. Felicia stood over him, expression a painful mix of anger, grief, and betrayal.

“I should kill you,” she whispered, fists balled so tightly that her hands shook. “I should have let Chaos tear your heart out when I had the chance…”

The woman in front of him was oddly foreshortened from his vantage. For a moment, he fancied not an adult but a small girl of no more than three or four stood in front of him. Hojo’s protegee was gone, and with him the knowledge of how to perform the ritual that would summon Zirconiade. It was profoundly unlikely anyone else had even half an idea as to what Grimoire and Lucrecia had discovered. Felicia would be safe, and that was all that mattered. If she wanted to cut his head off and end this mad dream, so be it. Even Chaos was unlikely to survive _that_.

“Do it,” he croaked. Planting his metal hand on the floor for support, he leaned forward, offering his neck to her. Felicia just stared at him.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not until you tell me who put you up to this.” Turning, she shouted over her shoulder. “ _SHEARS! DADDY!_ ”

Both men appeared almost instantly, stumbling to a halt just inside the doorway.

“What in the name of Odin’s six-legged pony…?” Veld began, taking in the spray of blood on the floor, the bullet hole in the wall, and Vincent on his knees. “The hell happened?”

“Daddy, take him into custody,” Felecia instructed, her tone frigidly professional. “Shears, go and find General Sephiroth. I’ll make my formal complaint directly to him.”

Obediently, Vincent put both hands behind his head. Veld, apparently too bewildered to protest, took Vincent’s gun and tucked it into his waistband. Producing a pair of handcuffs, he pulled both of Vincent’s arms behind his back. Vincent tried to remember the last time he’d been hauled before the Chief’s desk and found he could not recall. Oh, wait. The banana peels. Yes. Except that had not been his fault, and they’d all still been cadets then. Forever ago. Was the universe thrusting him out of Time even further? Was twenty-seven not enough, he must be reduced to a boy of eighteen everyone and everything around him became stranger and stranger, grow farther and farther away, out of memory, out of mind? More than ever, he felt like a ghost; a wisp of shadow and memory only as real as others perceived him to be. Maybe he really was dead and this was hell; his punishment for his sins? Veld’s strong hands on his wrists, however, forced him to rethink that theory.

“Formal complaint?” Veld echoed, trying to figure out how to cuff a man with a prosthetic wrist that was too wide for handcuffs. In the end he made a sort of slipknot with the chain and empty cuff. It wasn’t likely to hold, but procedure had to be followed. He trusted Vincent not to attempt escape.

“Yes,” Felicia said. “He killed one of my men. I want him punished.”

\--

“What the _hell_ were you _thinking?!_ ” Veld demanded, shoving his former partner toward the coal shed that had previously served as a prison for Azul. Vincent hardly needed such spacious accommodations, but it was less likely to set him off than the twin cinderblock cells in the town jail.

“He was going to hurt her,” Vincent mumbled, not wanting rest of the town to hear. “He admitted it flat-out. He was going to get her killed.”

“This is no time to have a nervous breakdown!” Veld hissed, trying hard to hold his temper. In truth he wasn’t angry but worried. This was the kind of thing that could get a man executed- or worse yet, shunted into the Science Department as a ‘volunteer’. “Why didn’t you pull your cuffs instead of your gun? You could’ve arrested him and let me handle the interrogation. Gods know I’m long overdue in terrorizing the men my daughter keeps company with.”

Vincent couldn’t help cracking a brief smile at that as Veld pulled him by the collar into the coal shed. The coal cart chains were still there, but they were much too bulky and heavy to use on a standard-sized man. For lack of a better idea, Veld took Vincent’s handcuffs and clipped him to the empty cart that stood before the enormous pile of coal.

“He was going to kill her, Veld,” Vincent insisted. “He was going to use her summon to destroy Shinra, but it would have cost Felicia her life.”

Veld just stared at him long and hard. “You were always so good at keeping your damn mouth shut,” he growled. “You don’t say another word to me or anyone else until Tseng and Sephiroth get here. Understand?”

With a sigh, Vincent nodded. “Yes, Chief.”

\--

Tseng had not been exaggerating. The stench of the days-old dead was evident long before one actually came upon the battle site. SOLDIERs in gloves and masks were removing the corpses not wholly buried by the landslide and piling them at the bottom of the slope. Others were collecting wood and dry brush with which to construct the funeral pyres. Burning was not a pleasant way to deal with cadavers, but it would be worth the smell and smoke if it would stop the illness from spreading. He stepped back as a pair of Thirds dragged one of the four-legged creatures between them and heaved it onto a pile of logs, kindling, and other corpses. The bodies had not deteriorated the way dead soldiers normally did, disappearing almost at once. SOLDIERS, by contrast, sometimes had time to rotting from the inside out, their flesh stripped by scavengers, before the Jenova in their bodies had leeched away enough to allow them to return to the Lifestream. Aside from the wounds that had killed them, the Deepground troops were oddly pristine if somewhat discolored and slightly mushy, rather like vegetables forgotten at the back of the refrigerator. Taking a mask for himself, Sephiroth went to help.

Azul was already there, building a pyre from what looked like entire trees that had not survived the landslide. It occurred to Sephiroth that these were Azul’s troops they were about to burn, yet the big man wore a neutral expression that bespoke neither sorrow nor anger. Shouldering a pine tree with the roots and branches still on, the giant saluted with his free hand.

“Movin’ right along, General,” he said by way of a report. “Burnin’ ain’t much fun for the living, but it’s a cleaner way to go than bein’ picked apart by scavengers- not that a buzzard’ed come within fifty feet of one of us anyway.”

“Is this common, then?” Sephiroth asked, nodding at the mound of bodies.

Azul set down the pine tree and began trimming away the branches, using an axehead as if it were no more than a pen knife. “I ain’t seen too many turn to pyreflies, not unless they were raw recruits who hadn’t had a chance to be augmented.”

“So this is a result of what? Jenova? Makou? Something else?”

“My guess’d be Jenova,” Azul mused. “Then again, a lot of ‘em were built, the rest had the heart beat out of ‘em. I guess it follows that something that ain’t got a soul can’t return to the planet.”

The words were not cold and callous so much as hollow and empty. It was despair, not indifference, that colored the giant’s words.

“Were they sentient?”

“Sort of? They follow the Restrictors’ orders, we all do. If the Restrictors tell ‘em to listen to me, they listen. Outside of that…” Azul shrugged. “They’re like the Restrictors themselves; meat robots, machines made out of flesh and blood. They got no soul, no feeling, probably don’t even bleed.”

“Rather like insects, then. A hive mentality.”

Azul nodded. “Somethin’ like that. I imagine the microchips help.”

“Is that true for all the soldiers?” Sephiroth wanted to know. “What about the raw recruits you mentioned? Those brought in from the outside?”

“Depends on them,” Azul shrugged. “Some hold out longer than others, but if they don’t get themselves killed first, all of ‘em eventually give up.”

“If we could deactivate the microchips, what would happen?”

The giant blinked and looked at him for a moment, a tree poised in his big hands. “Couldn’t really say…” he began slowly. “The recruits, the Mothers...they’d run and gods bless ‘em. The rest...it’d be like lettin’ a pack of rabid animals loose. Can’t say how it’d affect the Restrictors, but at least we’d be able to fight back.” He stacked the tree neatly on top of the others and turned to face the general. “Why? You got an idea?”

“Half of one,” Sephiroth replied, distracted by his own internal machinations.

“ _GENERAL!_ ”

Sephiroth whipped around and looked up the hillside. Elfe’s sub-commander stood at the top of the slope, hands cupped around his mouth.

“ _WE GOT A SITUATION!_ ” Shears hollered. “ _NEED YOU UP HERE NOW!_ ”

 

\--

 

“He did _what?_ ” Sephiroth blinked.

“Your Turk shot our medic point-blank,” Shears repeated angrily. “What you gonna do about it?”

For a moment, all he could do was stand and stare. After a minute he shook himself and tried to think of an order to give. Elfe, Shears, Veld, and Tseng were all looking at him expectantly. Vincent, by contrast, just stood there, hands bound behind his back and head down. All Sephiroth could come up with, however, was a question:

“Why was he even in the clinic? Tseng mentioned Fuhito had wanted to speak with him. Was it about the Geostigma cases?”

Elfe shook her head. “No. He wanted to ask him about the Chaos materia.”

It took all of Sephiroth’s restraint not to smack himself in the face. It was only too easy to imagine what must have happened. Vincent, the noble idiot, would do anything for his best friend’s daughter regardless of his own discomfort. Stoic military type that he was, he had probably thought he could suffer a once-over for the sake of his honorary niece. Fuhito might have been a good doctor, might have known his business, but he didn’t know Vincent. He could not have known that a simple physical might set him off. Fuhito was nowhere to be found, and therefore could not be questioned. The only testimony they had to go on was Vincent’s, and Sephiroth had not heard it yet.

“Is that true?” he asked, turning to face Vincent. The Turk looked up and nodded, his expression impassive.

“Yes,” he answered. “Dr. Fuhito examined me, asked me a few questions about the Chaos materia. I answered as best I could. He then went on to explain his plan involving the Zirconiade materia. He wanted to use it to eliminate Shinra, but summoning Zircon wouldn’t just wipe out Shinra, it would kill Felicia and a lot of other people as well.”

It sounded like nonsense, but Elfe was looking at Vincent not with perplexity, but an with expression of concentration. Sephiroth gave her a moment to ask a question, but when she remained silent, he went on.

“Did you shoot Fuhito?”

“Yes,” Vincent said without blinking. “I couldn’t let him kill Felicia.”

“Did he attack you?” Sephiroth asked. 

That brought Vincent up short. Jaw working and eyes pulling first to the left, then the right, and back again, he gave no answer. He honestly didn’t know.

“He was going to kill Felicia,” he finally repeated.

“Mr. Valentine,” Elfe began, stepping toward Vincent and tugging at the fingers of her right-hand glove. “What did Fuhito tell you regarding the use of the Zirconiade materia?”

“He told me that you agreed with him, that sacrifices had to be made. I didn’t believe him. Summoning Zirconiade before the others wouldn’t just get you killed, it would cost the lives of countless others.”

Elfe tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“He had the legend all wrong,” Vincent explained. “He didn’t understand that the destruction would not be selective. Zirconiade is the last in a series of five guardians. Chaos is the first, but Cosmos, Alpha, and Omega must follow afterward. Summoning Zirconiade before her siblings would be catastrophic. Also, painfully ironic.” At Elfe’s blank look, Vincent went on: “Once all life has been safely removed, Zirconiade reduces the planet to atoms. Calling her before her siblings have had a chance to gather up the souls of those who have walked this earth will ensure that there is no way this planet could start over again. Everything and everyone would be destroyed. Avalanche would end up killing the planet they’re trying so hard to save.”

“How do you know this?” she whispered.

“I have the Chaos materia in my chest,” Vincent told her straight-faced. “He’s told me a few things. Also, Dr. Grimoire Valentine- the man on whose research Fuhito had constructed his theories- was my father. I must have heard him recite that legend a hundred times. I’m sorry, but Fuhito had it wrong. His foolishness would have cost you your life. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Exhaling heavily through her nose, Elfe shook her head. Pulling off her glove, she displayed her right hand as if showing off a ring. “It’s all moot, Mr. Valentine. I can’t do anything with only half a summon materia.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. Sephiroth looked to Tseng. Vincent was a Turk and under his chain of command. This was technically his problem to resolve. However, no one else was looking at the head of the Turks; every eye was on Sephiroth.

 _A life for a life,_ a voice whispered at the back of his mind. _He killed the medic. It is forbidden to slay a healer._

It was true, Vincent had broken one of the unspoken laws of combat, as well as breached the fragile truce struck between Shinra and Avalanche. Sephiroth could hand the decision off to Tseng, or even Rufus, but he felt responsible for Vincent. He’d let him out of the coffin, taken him back to Midgar, dragged him into one situation after another that could have very well ended in disaster. It was only by the grace of the gods nothing had burnt down before this.

 _The firing squad… Hanging… Can he be killed?_ the voice asked.

Such were punishments of days gone by. Desertion was no longer punishable by death, though treason was still grounds for execution. Vincent had proven freakishly hard to kill, but that did not make it impossible. Was it truly his fault he’d reacted the way he did? His actions could be blamed on shell shock, battle fatigue, or whatever they were calling it these days. Vincent had been through a horrible ordeal that had only ended a few months ago, and could not be expected to handle active duty operations like this. He ought to be somewhere calm and pleasant, somewhere he could see the sun and know that he was safe.

 _Not guilty by reason of mental defect?_ the voice commented with a snicker. _Lock him away in a padded cell? Safe yes, but how long would he last? His demons would still find him there. One lives inside him; no escape from that. Kill him. Put him out of his misery. It would be the kindest thing, he has suffered long enough._

Under such circumstances Vincent might well be facing the block, but Sephiroth felt sick at the thought of killing the older man. He couldn’t. He did not have the stomach or the heart to slice Masamune through his neck- which was almost certainly what he would have to do. Like as not, Vincent would not even hold it against him. In the Turk’s mind, he had done what he had to do. He would be prepared to accept whatever judgement was laid upon him.

 _It would be a kindness,_ the voice repeated. _Do you love him enough to spare him further pain?_

Sephiroth swallowed hard, tasting the salt of held tears. Did he?

Wait...

It was likely only he detected it as yet- his senses were much sharper than that of the average person- but the stench of burning flesh had made its way into the coal shed. Azul and the SOLDIERs must have begun to incinerate the bodies. The voice that had sounded like doubt, like conscience, was not his own. He had not heard it full force like this since Nibelheim, but now it was back. Fear seized his heart, cold and restrictive as a clenched fist. He would have to act quickly. There was no knowing how much time he had. A headache was already beginning to set in.

“Shears, Veld, Tseng, you’re all witnesses,” he began, putting one hand to his head.

“Sir?” Tseng asked, drawing himself from parade rest to attention.

“In the event that something happens to me, I formally cede command to Commander Elfe Verdot. Shinra troops are to obey her and continue to fight alongside Avalanche as a united force.”

All of them just stared at him. Jenova bit deeper, and he staggered where he stood. Unable to stifle a cry of pain, he gripped his head with both hands. Vincent mirrored him, whimpering like a kicked dog and dropping to his knees, eyes glowing red.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Elfe demanded. “And what’s that smell?”

“If I attack my own forces,” Sephiroth panted, trying to push Jenova back, “if I come after you… Do what you must. Kill me if you have to. Please. Don’t let me hurt anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” Elfe demanded, alarmed.

“ _Get out!_ ” he snapped, fighting to stay conscious, to stay on his feet. “All of you out! Lock us in. _GO!_ ”

They went, the door swinging behind Veld with a resounding clang. The echo within the steel structure made Sephiroth’s teeth vibrate with the noise and he fell to his knees. A short distance away, Vincent’s breaths came in labored growls, his eyes burning in the dim light. Behind the pain, below Jenova’s mocking voice, an idea sparked to life.

“You once asked me to raise a hand against you,” Sephiroth muttered, crawling the few feet to where Vincent hung from his wrists by the handcuffs. “I couldn’t do it then…”

The Turk looked up at him, eyes glowing, sweat trailing down his white face. Sephiroth could almost hear the other creatures screaming inside Vincent’s head, while Jenova laughed at their distress. Like a fire suddenly stoked to life, Vincent’s eyes flared, bloody light filling up the whole of his eye and not just illuminating his irises. Not the Turk, but the demon Chaos looked out through the mask of Vincent’s face. The shouts of his headmates had fallen silent, only Jenova’s presence remained like a weight, crushing down on them both. Sephiroth swallowed hard.

“Kill her, My Lord,” he whispered. “And if you must kill me, I promise this time...I won’t fight you.”

The demon regarded him for a moment, then nodded. Every limb trembling, Sephiroth shoved himself to his feet, staggering for a moment before he could find his balance. Pulling Masamune from her sheath was not easy. She seemed to have tripled in weight; her grip slippery and her long blade awkward in his hands. It did not matter. Finesse was not needed, just the will to do what must be done. Even knowing that Vincent would survive did not make it any easier. Stumbling closer, Sephiroth hefted Masamune in a clumsy stance, and shoved.

Distantly he heard Masamune clatter to the floor, then Chaos’ bellow of rage. Sephiroth barely felt the rough crunch of gravel, or the cold, immobile punch of the cart rails as he was thrown backward to the floor. Vision blurring in and out, he watched as a massive pair of red leather wings erupted from Vincent’s back. The rest was lost in a cloud of coal dust as the demon seized control and leaped, punching straight through the tin roof of the shed. Despite himself, Sephiroth smiled. At least now, the field was even.


	48. Turncoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things escalate very, _very_ quickly.

Elfe whipped around and threw her arms over her head as the tin sheets of the shed roof exploded in a shower of rust and coal dust. An enormous figure- black as sin and held aloft by blood red wings- hovered high above for a moment before diving toward the battle site.

 _Chaos…_ Zirconiade whispered inside her head as the demon disappeared amid the smoke of the funeral pyres. First General Sephiroth ceding command to her and now Chaos? There was a noise like thunder mixed with the screeching of a thousand angry cats. Elfe cringed at the racket and squinted through the smoke. Something was approaching up the slope. At first she thought it was a wave- violently green and massive- rising up to surge over the camp, the mines, and the whole town itself. The liquid green rose to a crest, but did not crash down. Instead it spiraled up and up, resolving itself into a vaguely female figure. The head was human-shaped, the hair long and violet, not streaming down her back, but each strand waving on its own like a snake. The body- heavily curved- seemed at once dressed and naked, the arms covered with trailing sleeves, the bosom bare. Legs moved invisibly beneath the translucent skirt of virulent green liquid as she advanced, step by step, up the hill. Beneath her train, the bodies still buried in the landslide gathered their limbs beneath them and stood, following her. Farther back, living SOLDIERs trailed after her undead courtiers, Azul’s blue mane visible through the smoke.

“Oh gods…” Shears muttered. “Is that…?”

“Jenova…” Elfe finished.

In confirmation, Chaos swooped down, talons poised. Jenova let out another cat-shriek and met the Demon with claws of her own. Against Chaos, the would-be Ancient seemed to shrink slightly. Both were larger than life, but Jenova lost some of the immensity she had possessed a moment ago. Like a woman harassed by a swarm of insects, she flailed and swatted at Chaos, shrieking with every assault. While Jenova was thus engaged, Elfe turned to the others.

“Daddy, get Colonel Rhapsodos if he’s well enough, or Colonel Fair if he’s not. Have them ready the troops. Tseng, gather your people. Shears, get Avalanche together. We need to keep them away from the town!”

“Aw shit…” Shears muttered, having barely gone ten steps.

SOLDIERs were emerging from the Shinra camp, the same eerie green glow in their eyes that Sephiroth had had. Elfe’s stomach sank. Not so long ago they had been worried there weren’t enough SOLDIERs in rank. Now, however, she was of the opinion there were a few too many. How was Avalanche, the Shinra infantry, and a pack of militia to take on so many SOLDIERs she had no idea. The fact that most of them were Thirds and Seconds was not at all reassuring, to say nothing of the handful of Firsts: General Sephiroth, Colonel Rhapsodos, Colonel Fair, and the other commanding officers. None of them had their weapons drawn yet, but Elfe did not expect that to last long. Pulling her own sword free, she edged backward until she was shoulder-to-shoulder with Shears and the two Turks.

“Suggestions?” her father asked.

Elfe waited, watching, as the possessed troops filed past and- bizarrely- lined up for inspection. They took absolutely no notice of the quartet that had been edged against the wall of coal shed.

“...she doesn’t know who we are,” Elfe breathed, realization dawning. “She doesn’t know about Zircon. She has no idea we might be important.”

“What’s the plan?” Shears whispered.

“My orders still stand,” she hissed. “Alert Avalanche. Daddy, mobilize the Shinra troops that are still sane. Tseng, get the militia and the other Turks. We’re going to need all the help we can get, and for gods sake _don’t run!_ ”

Nodding, Shears crept around the corner of the building and out of sight, Tseng and her father right behind him. If her logic stood, the Shinra regular army, the volunteers from Corel prison, and Avalanche would not be affected because none of them carried any Jenova. However, if the SOLDIERs had all lost their minds, it wouldn’t do the unaffected troops much good. The SOLDIERs continued to stand there at attention, swords sheathed. Elfe wondered what they were waiting for. Perhaps for Jenova to recognize them. Chaos kept determinedly tearing at her, but did not seem to be able to make a mark in her liquid body. Finally, she managed to fling him aside. There was a distant rumble of rock as Chaos connected with the mountainside. Rid of her foe, Jenova tossed back her snake-like hair and turned a wicked smile full of sharp teeth on the assembled troops. Carefully, Elfe snuck around the edge of the building, doing her best to project an aura of ‘nothing to see here’. Once safely out of sight, she peeked around the corner of the shed.

“ _ **Our children…**_ ” Jenova smiled, spreading her arms in their tippet sleeves wide. “ _ **But where is our son? Where is the Prince?**_ ”

There was a loud bang from within the coal shed, and Elfe jumped as one of the walls suddenly buckled outward. A fist had punched it from within, leaving a deep dent. Instead of a second bang, however, the hideous screech of metal on metal gouged her eardrums. Elfe cringed against the building wall, but not only from the sound. It was expecting too much of a pre-fab building to hold Shinra’s greatest weapon for more than a few minutes. The dented sheet of metal exploded, tumbling loudly across the street before it fell face-down in a cloud of dust and noise. Into the settling coal dust strode General Sephiroth, eyes a solid, glowing, neon green.

She watched, the sinking feeling inside her growing worse, as Sephiroth strode to stand just in front of Azul. He dropped to one knee, bowing low before his monstrous queen. His footsteps had seemed strangely loud. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, her heart lightened. Avalanche troops mixed liberally with Shinra, Turks, and militia were creeping around the buildings, establishing hiding places and snipers perches. This was one instance where guerilla tactics would be preferable to an organized battle. Surprise would likely be the only advantage they had.

\--

“Colonel Rhapsodos?”

Aeris started back as he threw off the blankets and stood. The blood transfusion had done much to improve his condition, but his left arm was still bound close to his body in a sling to avoid further aggravating the wound. Grabbing his jacket and sword from the back of a chair, he shrugged both over his shoulders, and elbowed past her down the hall. Tifa- who had been assisting the female soldier with the wrenched shoulder- leaned out of the curtained area to watch him go.

“The hell?” she asked. “Where’s he think he’s going?”

“I dunno but…” Aeris trailed off, a thrill of fear rippling through her. There had been something sinister, something unnatural about his eyes, something worse than the glow brought on by makou. “Something’s wrong. Something’s _really_ wrong.” At once she hurried after Colonel Rhapsodos, Tifa right behind her. 

Outside, both women stopped short on the stairs. People in blue and green were walking slowly yet purposefully toward the battle site. Amid the uniforms bobbed Cloud’s spiky blonde head. Dread weighed in Aeris’ stomach like lead. It wasn’t that the troops were scrambling so much as the fact that they were absolutely silent. Grabbing Tifa’s wrist, she pulled her down into the crowd.

“What?” Tifa hissed, not daring to mar the silence. “What happened?”

Aeris gave her the same answer that her mother had given her: “Jenova”.

The legendary Crisis from The Skies stood at the edge of town, like an enormous, diseased, animate Jello mold. SOLDIERs living and dead stood in formation before her. At the head of the ranks of uniformed men knelt General Sephiroth and Colonel Rhapsodos, along with the big man from Deepground.

 _Now,_ her mother whispered, invisible hands shoving Aeris to her knees. _Now! With all your heart, NOW!_

“Aeris?” Tifa asked.

“Watch over me?” Aeris asked before she closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and began to pray.

\--

Jenova had leaned down to address the General, her gelatinous body shrinking ever so slightly to better take Sephiroth’s hands in her claws. Standing, she was perhaps a head taller than he was. It was obscene the way she smiled at him; the expression feral and predatory, more of a leer than an actual grin. It was not aided by the fact that her naked breasts were in danger of poking the General in the eye. What use an alien slime mold could have for breasts, Elfe did not care to imagine. Like as not, this was not her natural shape, and she was imitating some arcane ideal of female beauty to better fit in with the natives. In Elfe’s opinion, she had rather overdone it, her proportions- large hips, larger breasts, and an impossibly narrow waist- more comic than alluring. The creature was murmuring something to Sephiroth, her words too low to make out. Of Azul and Genesis, she took no notice, all of her attention focused on her ‘son’.

A flicker of light sparkled at the edge of her vision, and Elfe risked a second to look. A girl with a pink ribbon in her hair had fallen to her knees in the middle of the street; a shorter, sturdier woman in a modified Shinra uniform taking up a defensive position next to her. Hands clasped as if in prayer just below her chin, a white light shone softly between the girl’s fingers. Eyes closed, her lips moved wordlessly. A second shimmer of light made Elfe look up. The sky that had previously been the usual cold, blank gray of early winter had clouded over, rays of sunlight piercing through to cast spotlights on the earth below. One of these fell on Sephiroth, who took no notice of it. Jenova, however, lifted her head, the very human emotion of fear looking strange and foreign on her face.

“ _ **KILL IT!**_ ” she screamed, jabbing a claw at the praying girl. “ _ **IT WILL KILL US! KILL IT! KILL IT!!!**_ ”

At once Sephiroth and all of the SOLDIERs did an about face, a sudden explosion of black feathers bursting from the general’s back as a single wing erupted from his right shoulder. Like an animal he crouched, preparing to pounce, and Elfe threw herself forward the split-second before he leaped. Her arms shuddered with the force of the blow, and she was half afraid her own sword would shatter as Masamune sheared along the edge of her blade.

 _Take courage, child,_ Zirconiade whispered, _Keep him from the Flower Maiden at all costs. I will help you._ Elfe nodded and steeled herself, knowing she at least had half a chance of surviving this fight.

“DEFEND THE GIRL!” she shouted, trying to not just defend but attack as Sephiroth came at her again. “DON’T TRY TO BE A HERO, JUST KEEP THEM OFF HER! TRY TO DISARM ONLY! I DON’T WANT ANY FRIENDLY FIRE!”

Happily, even as they charged, the possessed SOLDIERs stumbled and looked around, confused. Unable to see for herself, Jenova’s angry cat-screech told her all she needed to know: Chaos had recovered and renewed his attack. Without their queen to direct them, the SOLDIERs were all but useless.

“CONCENTRATE FIRE ON JENOVA!” Elfe managed, swinging her sword up at the last minute as Sephiroth brought Masamune down hard. “THEY’RE LIKE INSECTS! SHE CAN’T DIRECT THEM IF SHE’S DISTRACTED!”

\--

Tifa stood, eyes wide and fists ready, staring at what to her resembled the set of the worst sort of B monster movie. Like a pack of zombies, the SOLDIERs had drawn their swords and begun advancing at Jenova’s command, but had trudged to a halt the minute Chaos had reappeared. A couple of the Thirds seemed to be trying to shake it off, as awakening from a dream. Caught somewhere between inspiration and a hunch, Tifa marched up to the nearest one and punched him hard in the face. The unsuspecting SOLDIER stumbled, only managing to stay on his feet because he’d fallen into the men next to him. Amazingly, the Third shook himself and regained his balance, the green glow gone from his eyes.

“Owww…” he whined, holding his bleeding nose. “What the hell, lady?”

Tifa grinned widely. “Smack ‘em upside the head!” she commanded, already moving to give the man next to him an uppercut to the jaw. “We might be able to get them to snap out of it!”

It took him a few precious seconds to orient and realize what had happened. Once he had, however, he sheathed his weapon and followed her example. Leaving the Third and his now conscious handful of friends to try wake up more of the SOLDIERs, Tifa fell back to stand in front of Aeris. A couple of the Seconds had figured out their plan, and were advancing toward her, a familiar face among them.

“Colonel Fair…” Tifa began, hoping he could hear her despite the green glow that had replaced the familiar indigo blue of his eyes. “You don’t want to hurt Aeris, you love her!”

Trudging to a halt, he looked at her for a moment and put a hand to his temple. A grimace of pain crossed his face, but when he lifted his head again, the green glow was still present. He was in there, but apparently Jenova’s hold on him was too strong for him to throw her off on his own. Mechanically, he lifted the Buster sword from his back. Knowing there was nothing for it, Tifa crouched into a ready stance. She was going to have to fight him.

He rushed her, sword poised to skewer both her and Aeris at once. Side-stepping at the last second, Tifa clapped the flat of the blade between both hands and shoved down. The sword bit deep into the hard earth, sending Zack head over heels in an awkward vault over Aeris’ head. Twisting in mid-air, he managed to land on his feet, tugging the sword free after him. Tifa didn’t wait for him to swing it a second time, but landed a kick and a punch to his middle. It was like kicking a brick wall. He stumbled back and brought the sword around in a wide arc over his head. The saving grace of dueling bare-knuckle to a blade was that the Buster sword was so large Zack could not help but hint as to what his next move would be, giving her the extra fraction of a second to anticipate with a less predictable counter-attack of her own. Zack slashed at her, Tifa flipping neatly out of the way, not springing up from her crouched landing, but extending a leg to sweep his feet out from under him. He went down hard, but again caught himself, landing on his hands and elbows and not flat on his back. By the time he had launched himself back to his feet, Tifa was gone. A solid kick to the small of his back nearly sent him face-first into the dirt, but he tucked and rolled at the last second. Using the momentum, he stood and swung, etching a shallow slice into Tifa’s bicep. She cringed, but her lips pulled back over gritted teeth in a smile as she felt the adrenaline surge of a limit break. She didn’t even glance at the Buster sword as she rushed him, fists pummeling him a flurry of blows too fast to count. He stumbled back, and she had time to note the gawp of surprise on his face as she flipped and kicked, sending him flying backwards. He had barely landed in a cloud of dust and gravel when she grabbed him by one arm and leaped before driving him back into the dirt.

Colonel Fair just lay there, his eyes blue and blank, staring up into the clouds. A whimper escaped his lips and he stiffly curled up on his side. Tifa crouched and raised her fists in case he was ready for more, but instead of attacking, he struggled onto all fours and retched. Getting sick to his stomach like that proved she’d probably knocked some sense into him- literally. Vomiting could be a side-effect of getting your bell rung, and Zack had surely seen stars when she’d hit him. There was no way Jenova was still in charge. The strange thing was, had Jenova not been puppeting him earlier, there was probably no way she could have beaten him.

Leaving Zack for the moment, Tifa turned her attention back to Aeris, who was still kneeling; a halo of white light engulfing her like a tiny sun. Perhaps a dozen Thirds and Seconds who had regained their senses and a couple of Shinra infantry had formed a loose ring around her, keeping the possessed troops at bay. Steel clashed against steel, though few shots rang out. The Shinra infantry had fixed their bayonets in place, and all of them were following her example of trying to concuss their comrades into reason. Not far away, Cloud edged back to get a swing in, bringing the butt of his rifle down hard on another SOLDIER’s head.

“Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled as the other man fell to his knees, shook himself, and looked around confused.

“Cloud…” Colonel Fair croaked as he tried to stand. Using the Buster sword as a crutch, he managed to shove himself to his feet, but almost immediately staggered sideways, collapsing to his knees. Cloud broke ranks and hurried over, doing his best to keep his commanding officer upright.

“Take it,” Zack said, looking more than a little cross-eyed. “Keep her safe for me.” He held the Buster sword out slightly to the left of Cloud, his vision apparently skewed enough to affect his aim. Cloud took the pommel with both hands and nodded firmly.

“I will, Sir.” The Buster sword in one hand, he helped Zack limp closer to Aeris, well within the protective ring of infantry. Both men looked up as a sudden spatter of rain spritzed the dusty ground.

“Were they callin’ for snow?” Zack slurred as Cloud set him down.

“Just stay here, Sir,” Cloud told him and turned to help the others. 

Putting his head between his knees, Zack appeared prepared to sit there and not move. Out of the corner of his eye, Cloud caught the multicolored sparkle of a level-three cure spell. Shaking himself, Colonel Fair staggered to his feet and remained upright. The rain picked up, becoming a shower, and several of the Thirds shook off their own trance even though they had not been struck.

“STAND DOWN!” Zack hollered, turning to face the recovered troops. “Help get these other knuckleheads to snap out of it! Disarm only! I don’t want anyone getting hurt if we can avoid it!”

As one, the Thirds and Seconds who had returned to earth rushed forward to engage those who had not. The ground was growing muddy, and their boots sloshed rain water as they ran. Strangely, though it had been cold enough that Tifa could see her breath, the rain fell soft and warm like a shower. An ear-splitting shriek from Jenova drew her attention back to the battle at hand.

The restored SOLDIERs had become awkwardly bunched up between the rows of outbuildings, many of them looking around, confused. Tifa squinted up at the glistening raindrops, over at Aeris, still praying, and at the miraculously recovered Second and Third Class SOLDIERs. The Firsts, however…

Elfe and Sephiroth traded blows with the flash and speed of lightning, steel sparking off steel as their blades clashed over and over. Black chased white across the rooftops, over the muddy street. Dimly, it occurred to Elfe that she had yet to face Sephiroth in a fair fight. He had been unwilling to engage her the first time they’d met, and now the creature Jenova was directing his movements. The strength, the speed, and skill were still that of the Great Sephiroth, but something seemed off. Perhaps it was the human element, the ability to think on one’s feet and make split-second decisions. It was almost like fighting an ameture, or a journeyman. That was not to say, however, that he was not giving her hell. She could feel Zircon straining to keep up, to reinforce Elfe’s own arms as she took a reluctant swing at the General. She did not want to hurt him, but if she he gave her an opening, she would have to take it. Jenova could not be allowed to wield so dangerous a weapon.

The Crisis, however, was too busy to give her ‘son’ her full attention. Chaos tore at her writhing hair, tearing a few tendrils loose and casting them aside. The strands fell to the ground, wriggling and hissing, teeth where a follicle should have been. Rather than risk being bitten, the SOLDIERs hurried to stomp the vipers into the muddy ground.

“ _ **USELESS!**_ ” Jenova screamed, trying to tear Chaos away. “ _ **USELESS IDIOTS! KILL IT, OUR SONS! KILL IT! KILL IT!**_ ”

Tifa’s stomach sank as Colonel Rhapsodos and Azul turned and began to march toward Aeris. The good news was that an army of SOLDIERs and other troops stood between them. The bad news was that Cloud had wound up near the front lines. Swallowing hard, he stood his ground, Buster sword poised awkwardly in both hands.

Although none of the troops wanted to engage their commanding officers, they weren’t going to have much choice. Azul cleared several lines of soldiers with a sweep of one massive arm, knocking the men aside like bowling pins. Genesis had drawn his sword. Left arm bandaged and bound close to his body beneath his red coat, he nonetheless cut an imposing figure with his burning blade and single black wing.

“Aw fuck,” Zack muttered, and lifted Aeris’ staff from her shoulders, being careful not to touch her. “I need to borrow this for a minute. I’ll give it right back.” Completely absorbed in her prayer, Aeris did not stir. Indeed, she appeared not to have heard him at all.

Balance still more than a little off, he stumbled forward, his path pulling to one side like a shopping cart with a damaged wheel. With a frustrated noise, Tifa delivered a quick left hook to the SOLDIER in front of her and then hurried after Zack.

“Are you crazy?!” she demanded, catching his arm and pulling him back. “You can’t even see straight! You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“No,” Zack said, nodding at Cloud, “he is.”

Following Zack’s skewed line of sight, Tifa felt her heart sink.

\--

“Stand aside,” Genesis commanded.

Heart visibly pounding, Cloud hefted the sword and did not move. “Can’t do that, Sir.”

With a snarl, Genesis raised the sword high above his head, the flames licking along the steel creating a halo of steam amid the falling rain. Drops slid off the ends up his faded hair to run down the red leather of his jacket. Cloud blinked, as Genesis’ sword arm quivered, the blade wavering in the air for a moment before the Colonel collapsed to his knees. Dropping his sword, he clawed at his face, his hair, and Cloud took a step back, alarmed.

“Sir?” he asked hesitantly. 

Genesis looked up at him, the green glow in his eyes flickering. At first Cloud thought that Genesis had been wearing makeup. Brown-black streaks ran down the Colonel’s face, as if he were wearing cheap mascara. However, the marks weren’t just streaming from his eyes. Muddy blotches had appeared on his throat as well, and bare spots were beginning to develop along the span of his wing.

“Mother!” he screamed, trying to wipe the water away, but it was raining so hard the gesture was useless. “ _Mother!_ ”

Zack, still leaning heavily on Tifa, stumbled to an awkward halt when the sword fell from Genesis’ hand. Both stared confused, then turned to look past him and Cloud as a shout went up. The troops were beating a hasty retreat, trying to get out of the Azul’s way. Unable to escape the rain, the giant had collapsed into the mud. Dark splotches mottled his bare arms and face, the warm raindrops seeming to burn his skin like acid.

“My Lady!” he shouted. “It burns!”

 _Holy…_ The word formed strong and solid in Zack’s otherwise muddled thoughts. Aeris had explained about the white materia that she wore as a pendant on a black silk cord around her neck. Her mother had given it to her, along with an oath never to use it except in only the most dire emergencies. Apparently, that translated to “in case of Jenova”.

Jenova- otherwise occupied- paid no attention whatsoever to her children’s cries. Chaos was still clawing at her hair, tearing at her body, his talons leaving great gouges in her jelly-like flesh. However, the wounds closed themselves almost at once. Like with her children, however, the rain did not seem to be sitting well with her either. The drops left steaming pockmarks in her skin, the holes appearing faster than they could close. She had long since abandoned her crude pretense of the female form and had twisted herself into whatever shape was most useful. Her gelatinous body seemed to be melting under the constant fall of warm rain. She screamed her cat screech and cowered as one of the sunbeams struck her. Chaos lunged at her, burying both arms deep in the poisonous green mass of her body. Jenova screamed again, and several people cringed and covered their ears. Rather than strike back, she pulled the puddle of her body together as much as she could.

“ _ **No,**_ ” Chaos growled, evidently having found something solid within her to hold onto. “ _ **You will not escape this time. I will see you destroyed, even if I must drag you into the abyss myself.**_ ”

Even without form, without a face or lips with which to speak the words, her reply was both sinister and obscene. “ _ **If you insist.**_ ”

Chaos started, but didn’t let go as Jenova reared and swallowed him like an enormous amoeba. Her shapeless, slug-like body oozing and steaming under the holy rain, she rushed toward the cliff face like a wave and disappeared over the edge, Chaos trapped inside.

\--

Elfe started back as Sephiroth _screamed_ , his deep voice twisted into an unnatural shrillness that matched Jenova’s shriek. Dropping his sword, he clutched his head with both hands and fell to his knees. She should strike him down, run him through, but she stood as if frozen, mesmerized by the grimace of _pain_ etched across his face. Pain or not, he was still bigger and stronger than she was, even with Zirconiade’s help. She could not risk Jenova puppeting him a second time. Turning her own blade in her hands, she wound up and swung.

Sephiroth abruptly fell silent, his head snapping to one side with the force of the blow. For half a breath he remained upright before his long body pitched sideways and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Behind him the monster screamed, writhing beneath the falling drops of crystalline water. It reminded her of the old witch melting away- her wickedness no match for the pure heart of the heroine- in a movie she’d seen as a child, but on a much grander scale. Indeed, the Deepground troops _had_ melted away like wax, only their weapons and uniforms remained, lying in rumpled heaps amid puddles of virulent green liquid. The green ooze rushed after Jenova like retreating surf as she screeched and dove into the canyon, Chaos disappearing as well. The troops, bless them, gave chase. A few brave souls stopped and tried to assist their commanders who had now fallen senseless to the ground.

The holy rain washing away the last traces of Deepground and Jenova, Elfe dug her sword into the earth and dropped to her own knees, suddenly exhausted. At her feet, the Great Sephiroth lay crumpled and inert, but still breathing. She had struck him with the flat of her blade, knocking him out. He would have a beautiful headache when he woke up, but at least he would awaken. It was more than could be said for Fuhito.

It struck her then that he was not coming back, that he was gone. More than ever she wanted to sob, but she couldn’t. With Sephiroth and half the Shinra troops out of their minds, she was next in the chain of command. Sephiroth had entrusted his men to her. He had known this would happen, if only for a few minutes. She had wanted to like him, wanted to trust him, but now… Looking over at him, it was hard to separate the anger from the sadness from the pity. There was something strangely undignified about the tall man lying sprawled unconscious like a puppet with its strings cut. His long arms and legs lay bent at awkward angles, his single wing thrown wide onto the muddy earth, black feathers scattering on the cold mountain air.

Like it or not, they were still in this together. By his word, Shinra was hers to command. The irony was not lost on her. She had no idea what to do with him, just as he had had no idea what to do with Agent Valentine. Rather, he had known, but had not wanted to do it. At least Sephiroth had been spared from having to execute someone he had admired and respected, even if she herself could not fathom why. Jenova had dragged Chaos into Hell with her, and with any luck, neither of them would come back. They deserved each other, she thought. With Chaos gone, that meant the Turk was gone as well. A life for a life. He’d been killed anyway. 

The slosh of heavy boots approaching at a rapid pace through the soft earth made her turn her head. Her father was pelting toward her across the now empty battlefield.

“Felicia!” he cried, dropping to his knees and wrapping both arms around her in a crushing hug. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re safe,” he panted, pressing his cheek against her hair.

Releasing her sword, she hid her face in his shoulder. She could not allow Shears or any of the others to comfort her, but surely no one would begrudge her this. Tears were gathering behind her eyes, welling up in her heart, but she forced them back. Before, the pain in her hand had felt distant, as if the fatigue belonged to someone else. Now, however, it was beginning to assert itself. She was tired, so tired…

“Daddy, help me up?”

He didn’t pull her to her feet so much as picked her up. Her good arm around his neck, she tried to hold military posture for the few precious seconds he had left.

“Get the wounded inside,” she commanded, using her last bit of strength to make her voice carry even as her vision blacked out. “Anyone still under Jenova’s control is to be kept under guard. Shears, Tseng, and Colonel Fair will share command until further notice...”

And that was all she had time for.


	49. Bereft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleaning up after the fact is always a pain.  
> Sephiroth has a lot of things to straighten out logistically as well as inside his own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a few small liberties in regards to the Healing Rain. Here it functions as sort of smush of Aeris' final limit break, Great Gospel, and the healing rain from "Advent Children".
> 
> We'll get to Holy later.

Azul had not felt this bad for a long time. It had been years- decades- since the last time he’d been ill. Whatever he’d caught had to be virulent indeed to lay flat a SOLDIER of his size. Everything ached, chills shivered through his massive body, and he shuddered. A small hand touched his brow and his first thought was of Argento. Fully expecting to see her patched face, he blinked at the one watching him. She was young, probably still a teenager. Instead of Argento’s straight black hair, the girl wore her auburn curls tied back with a pink ribbon. Noticing his bewildered look, she smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

“Been better,” he groaned, a wave of nausea washing over him as he sat up.

“Believe it or not, that’s a good thing,” she told him. “You enlisted as an adult, right?”

“Yeah…” he answered slowly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“The Healing Rain washed Jenova away,” she explained. “You and the other First Class SOLDIERs have been exposed to Jenova a lot longer than the Seconds and Thirds, so it’s taking more time for your system to clear. Zack and most of the other commanding officers are fine now.”

She meant Fair, the General’s spiky-haired second. “Is that why I feel so sick?”

She nodded. “You’ve actually got a mild case of Geostigma, but you’re going to be fine.”

Her entire speech was so strange to his ears that at first he didn’t believe her. When was the last time someone had told him everything would be okay? He couldn’t remember. It would have been a lifetime ago, before Shinra, back when he was only tall, not enormous, and his life didn’t resemble a bad horror movie.

“Think you can drink this?” The girl presented him with a glass of the clearest, most sparkling water he had ever seen. It didn’t look real. Magic radiated from it like heat from a candle flame, like light from the sun. He didn’t _think_ she was trying to poison him, but he couldn’t help being a little afraid of the glass full of magic. It was so beautiful all he really wanted to do was sit and look at it. A dry screech made him look up from the glass. The girl had shoved an old fashioned tin wash tub in front of him.

“What’s that?”

“One of the tubs for ice baths,” she explained. “The hospital let me borrow it.”

“Why?” He asked, growing suspicious.

“Try and drink the whole thing,” the girl prompted, ignoring his question. “It will help.”

Nervously, he eyed the glass before downing it like a shot. It was like drinking liquid diamonds, new fallen snow, or spring wind after rain. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Unwilling to leave any in the glass, he tilted his head far back to catch the last drop.

“Two more just like that,” Azul smiled, handing her the empty glass. The girl smiled back.

“Well, let’s see how you feel, first. That was a double dose; twice what I gave the other SOLDIERs.”

“Double dose?” he echoed, confused. “Of what?”

The miraculous taste of the the water had distracted him from his discomfort, but it had returned doubled. As if someone had cast Bio 3 on him, noxious pins-and-needles shivered through him and his stomach lurched. He could not have held back if he wanted to. Falling to all fours, he retched into the tub. Aeris had been wise to use it as a basin. It was nearly full by the time he collapsed back onto his seat, coughing and gasping for breath. The girl waited until he’d recovered somewhat before offering a glass of ordinary water. Grateful, he took it and rinsed his mouth, spitting into the tub.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he rasped, the revelation of just how well he felt both wonderful and strange. He had not realized how cramped his muscles had become, or how noisy the inside of his head had been. Without the constant white noise of Jenova in the back of his mind like the humming of machinery, everything sounded so much louder, so much clearer. For the first time in years, he felt as if he could finally think straight.

The disgusting gray-pink vomitus in the tub was slowly turning to black-brown liquid, as if someone had filled it with mud, or used motor oil. Without a life to sustain them, the Jenova cells were dying.

“Thank you, er...” He trailed off, realizing he’d never gotten her name.

“Aeris.”

“Thank you, Aeris,” he told her honestly.

She smiled and squeezed his shoulder with one hand. “I’m just happy you’re free.”

 _Well,_ Azul thought, smiling for her, the edges of the microchip seeming to dig into his flesh even more sharply now that Jenova’s presence was not there to mute it, _mostly._

\--

 

It took Sephiroth a brief yet terrifying moment to realize where he was. Bare fluorescent lights glared down at him from the ceiling. When he tried to get up, pain seized him by the neck and threw him back down onto the mattress. As he lay there gasping, a familiar face swam into view. Although the hair was dark, it was unruly, and the worried expression was notably free of glasses.

“You okay, Sir?”

“Zack…” Sephiroth could have hugged him, but he was pretty sure the pain still held him fast. The last thing he clearly remembered was helping the other SOLDIERs to burn the bodies of the Deepground troops when… Oh dear. “...I lost it again, didn’t I?”

“We all did, Sir,” Zack told him, a rueful look on his usually cheerful face.

Of course. Anyone carrying Jenova’s cells might be immune to Geostigma, but were at risk of being subject to her will. Dear gods… Jenova and nearly a hundred crazed commanding officers against a mob of infantry, terrorists, and militia. His stomach twisted sickeningly at the thought of the casualties that must have resulted.

“Please tell me I didn’t kill anyone?”

Zack shook his head. “Not for lack of trying. Commander Verdot managed to hold you off. Weirdly enough, just about everyone made it back alive. I think Jenova knew the real danger was Aeris.”

That made him blink. “Aeris?”

“Yeah, she summoned the Healing Rain while Chaos fought Jenova and Commander Verdot kept you busy. The rain washed away the remains of the Deepground soldiers, but it only scared Jenova off.”

It was a relief to know that most of the army was still standing, but there was still the larger issue of the alien parasite. “We need to kill her,” Sephiroth said decidedly. 

“No shit,” Zack agreed, “but _how?_ We’ve lost her again. We don’t even know where the hell she’s gone.”

It was indeed a problem. It appeared as if every time they made even the slightest bit of progress, something happened to put them right back where they started. Sephiroth lifted his hands to rub his face and found that this was doable. Sitting up, however, triggered white-hot ripples of agony from neck to navel. He tried to tell himself he’d had worse, to convince himself to force past it, to get up, but it was a difficult argument to present. There seemed to be additional weight dragging on his right shoulder. He tried to twist and look, but had to stop at the sudden surge of pain and the gasp it forced from his throat.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Zack said, gently pushing him down by both shoulders. Sephiroth’s stomach sank at the ease with which Zack did this. “Commander Verdot had to smack you upside the head with her sword to get you off her case. Got your bell rung nicely. Shalua’s trying to be in like ten places at once right now, but she’s gonna want to look you over before she lets you out of bed, let alone out of the clinic.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

Sephiroth tried to turn his head, but found the pain would not allow this, he was able to match the face with the voice as Genesis limped into view. He looked like Sephiroth felt: tired and worn-out. For a long moment his friend stood silent, golden eyes coming to rest on something just out of view, off to the General’s right. Sephiroth tried to look as well, but only managed to turn his head a few degrees. Pain clamped down, turning his muscles to stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a length of black feathers awkwardly folded between his bed and the floor.

_Oh gods…_

The mass of feathers obeyed when he tried to lift it the way he might have lifted his arm, a single wing unfurling from his shoulder. The thing was huge, more than large enough to bear a man Sephiroth’s size, and Zack had to scoot out of the way to avoid getting hit by it as it opened. While Genesis’ wing feathers laid smooth and sharp like that of hawk and Angeal’s had been white and full like a dove’s, Sephiroth’s were somewhere in between, smooth and black as night, but fuller than Genesis’ sleek plumage. Up close, the feathers had a blue-green sheen where the light struck them. It might have been beautiful if humans were supposed to have wings. As it was, something cold settled in the pit of Sephiroth’s stomach, and he folded the unwanted limb out of sight.

“Black,” Genesis mused more to himself than to anyone else. “Angeal’s wing was white… What does that say about us?” he chuckled, forcing a smile. Sephiroth forced an equally false smile in return.

Although he was in his right mind now, Genesis had not been branded a madman until after he’d received his wing. Sephiroth knew now that his friend had been acting at Jenova’s insidious promptings, but it was cold comfort. How long could he expect to hold onto his own sanity with a raven’s wing sprouting from his back? It was as well he had transferred command to Elfe before Jenova had snatched control. Sephiroth only hoped he had not caused too much damage while Jenova piloted his body.

“That we still have many wrongs yet to right,” Sephiroth replied. “How bad was it?” 

“Well, I got Jenova-ed too,” Zack said, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t actually remember all that much. Captain Shears is calling the shots at the moment. According to him, just about everyone made it back in one piece, so it could have been way worse. The other SOLDIERs are being treated for Geostigma, but most of them are okay.”

Sephiroth frowned, confused. “I thought Geostigma did not affect SOLDIERs?”

“That’s the tricky part,” Zack explained. “The Healing Rain washed away the Jevona- _all_ of it- including the Jenova in the SOLDIERs’ bodies. I don’t think I’ve been _that_ sick in my entire life, but at least it was over pretty quickly.”

“What about Commander Verdot?”

Zack and Genesis exchanged a worried look.

“She made it off the field alive,” Zack told him, “but outside of that, I don’t know. No one’s told us too much.”

“That’s because I’ve been trying to treat about fifteen people at once,” a female voice cut into their conversation. The curtain was pulled enough to admit Shalua, her bright red hair tied back in a hasty ponytail.

“How are the SOLDIERs?” Sephiroth wanted to know.

“Well, I got good news and bad news,” she announced. “The good news is, the last of the SOLDIERs have been tested, and every one of them is Jenova-free, everyone except you two.”

“Why us?” Genesis asked, confused.

“When you were brought in, you both had marks from the healing rain that resembled Geostigma lesions,” Shalua explained. “However, they faded after only a few hours. I guess it wasn’t enough to purge the Jenova from your systems.”

“How much would be enough?” Sephiroth asked.

Shalua thought about that. “Aeris gave Azul twice as much rainwater as the rest of the SOLDIERs were given, and his blood test came back clear. I’m guessing you would need at least that much, probably more.”

Sephiroth wasn’t so sure. Azul had enlisted as an adult. SOLDIERs carried Jenova in their bloodstream the same way they might carry medication, administered by syringe in doses that after time would wear off and need to be refreshed by a new injection. While he had likely been exposed to much more Jenova than the average SOLDIER, he hadn’t been conceived bearing Jenova’s DNA. One-third of both Genesis and Sephiroth’s genetic code was Jenova’s. A little magic- no matter how powerful- was unlikely to purge their bodies down to the cellular level, at least, not without causing significant damage.

“Do you think it would help?” Genesis’ voice snapped Sephiroth’s attention back to the conversation at hand. The younger man gestured to the sling that bound his arm, and Shalua contemplated it thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “The only thing to do would be to try it and see.”

“Let me go first,” Sephiroth cut in. They both turned to look at him, Genesis’ expression rather annoyed.

“Let me do this for you?” Sephiroth asked. “I don’t want you to be hurt worse if it doesn’t work.”

Genesis had opened his mouth to argue, but closed it and nodded. “Alright.”

Shalua disappeared briefly and returned with two tall glasses of dazzlingly clear water. It was beautiful, almost too bright to look at, like the center of the sun. In the back of Sephiroth’s head, something shrank back from it and hissed like an angry cat. Jenova didn’t like the glittering water, which made him all the more determined to drink it. Swallowing back his pride as well as pain, he sat up with Zack’s help and reached for a glass. Pain arced down his spine and out across his arms, making his muscles spasm and jerk. Water sloshed over the edge of the glass, crystalline drops spattering his bare arms and chest. The hiss in his mind became a shriek, and he cried out in pain himself before he could bite the noise back. The water stung like acid, melting his skin into brown-black puddles where the drops had fallen.

“Oh my gods, I’m so sorry!” Shalua hastily took the glass from him and carefully set it well out of reach. Genesis just stared, horrified. All Sephiroth could do was sit there and try to push past the pain as Shalua carefully dabbed at the spots with a towel. Already he could feel his core temperature rising like a furnace stoked with fuel. The ugly splotches began to fade, healing over as if they had never been.

“I don’t think you should try to drink that,” Zack remarked, his expression mirroring Genesis’.

“I agree with Colonel Fair,” Shalua said, coming closer to perch on the edge of the bed. Reaching, she set her hands gently against Sephiroth’s neck. “Does that hurt?”

She pressed her fingertips into his muscle, making him wince.

“A little,” he admitted.

“It should,” she told him, now running her hands along his shoulders. “You had a concussion and a nice case of whiplash. You’ll be okay in a day or two, but please try not to force movement? You’ll aggravate the injury and it’ll take twice as long to heal. If it hurts, don’t do it. Simple as that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sephiroth told her, unable to suppress a smirk. “I don’t suppose I’m cleared for duty?”

“Hell no,” Shalua said, getting up and making a note on his chart. “You can get up and wander around the hospital if you want, but I’m keeping you here at least another twenty-four hours because I’m pretty sure if I don’t, you’ll just find more ways to exacerbate your injury.”

Genesis snickered, and Sephiroth fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Zack raised his hand like a child at school. “What about me?”

Shalua seemed amused by this. “You’re fine. You can head out as long as you feel up to it.”

“Bring me some clothes?” Sephiroth asked. “I want to speak to Commander Verdot.” And he couldn’t do that in his underwear.

“Sure thing, Sir.” Zack only waited long enough to salute before making his exit. 

Shalua waited until Zack had left before turning to Sephiroth, an odd look on her face. “You can’t speak to Commander Verdot. Not now.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Why not? Is she alright?”

“She’s in quarantine,” Shalua answered in a flat tone, “with a case of Geostigma.”

 

\--

Trying to get dressed with a stiff neck was bad enough, but the wing added an extra degree of difficulty.

“What do you do with yours?” Sephiroth asked, eyeing the new limb and then his long, leather coat.

“Fold it flat,” Genesis advised, demonstrating with his own wing. “It’s a little bulky, but you should be able to fit it under your jacket.”

There was actually a rent in the back of the coat through which he could have slotted his wing. Instead, he tucked the new limb tightly against his shoulder and shrugged the coat over it. Genesis was right; it made for a tighter fit, but it was doable. The only problem was the wing wanted to move with him like an extra arm, further throwing off his center of gravity. Strapping Masamune across his shoulders might have helped, but both his and Genesis’ weapons had been confiscated. Although he did not like to be without his sword, Sephiroth saw the necessity of keeping Masamune out of his hands. Still, he felt naked without her.

Genesis nodded approvingly once Sephiroth had finished putting himself together. “Not bad. The coat covers it. You can hardly tell.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth replied, glad for a second pair of eyes since he had no mirror. Although probably everyone in town had seen the wing, he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than he had to.

“It isn’t fair,” Genesis said, his voice strangely without petulance. “I should be going with you. I _want_ to help, but I’m trapped here. Even you won’t let me leave.”

“I want you to get well,” Sephiroth told him truthfully.

Genesis scowled. “How? The rainwater would probably kill me, and your blood will only give Jenova a stronger hold over me.” The younger man sighed heavily and shook his head. “I don’t want to be the Prisoner…”

“Not for too much longer,” Sephiroth promised, resting a hand on his friend’s undamaged shoulder. “We’ll find a way to defeat Jenova, and soon enough you and I will be back in Midgar, defending a new regime.”

“ _My friend, do you fly away now?_ ” Genesis quoted. “ _To a world that abhors you and I?_ ”

“No, just to talk to Elfe,” Sephiroth said, and patted his shoulder as he turned to leave. “I’ll be back.”

“You’d better!” Genesis called after him.

 

\--

To Sephiroth’s mild surprise, the ward on the other side of the curtain that separated his bed from the others was almost full. He and Genesis had been placed in the back corner, at least two empty cots between them and the next man. He recognized many of the other Firsts and a handful of Seconds as well. Everyone else must have been recovered enough to leave. Those who noticed him saluted. He nodded and returned salute before pushing the door open and going out into the hall. 

Here it was strangely quiet, only a few nurses hurrying back and forth. Near the Geostigma ward, he spotted Veld sitting on one of the old-fashioned wood benches. At Sephiroth’s approach, he looked up.

“They won’t let me see her,” Veld said, the look on his weathered face the closest to tears Sephiroth had ever seen on a Turk. “She’s not well and there’s nothing I can do…”

The helplessness in the older man’s voice was painful.

“Where’s Vincent?” Sephiroth asked. The other Turk had survived Geostigma and was further immunized by the Chaos materia in his chest. Surely he would be all too happy to sit with his best friend’s daughter? Veld just looked at him, confusion morphing into something so much worse.

“Oh gods, son, I thought you knew…” He stood and gripped Sephiroth’s upper arm with one calloused hand. “Jenova swallowed Chaos whole, pulled him into the gorge with her. Sephiroth… Vincent’s dead.”

It was as if someone had put the world on mute. All sound had been shut off, his ears ringing with the silence. Outside, he felt his body lock into a stiff, military stance, his left hand curling into a fist around an imaginary sword. It was an old response, a behavior drilled into him until it had become reflex. Stand up straight. Face the problem. Show no fear. The greater the pain, the braver the face. The same was true for Turks, but Veld’s thick mask had cracked, and Sephiroth realized the deep lines in his face had been carved at the same time as the many scars in his heart.

“I’m so sorry, son…”

Sephiroth nodded and replied with a mechanical “Thank you,” his mind and body struggling to resynchronize. He had to do something, _must_ do something; if he didn’t, he was going to break down where he stood and that _could not_ happen. There was nothing he could do about Vincent, but there was something he could do about Veld. He’d been separated from his daughter for most of her life. They barely knew each other, yet it was obvious he cared about her.

“Come with me.” Turning sharply, Sephiroth strode purposefully down the hall toward the quarantined wing of the hospital. Through the windows, it was easy to see that only one of the many cots was occupied, the faded yellow curtains drawn closed around it. Elbowing past the guards, he barged through the doors with Veld right behind him.

Rather than walk all the way to the veiled bed, Sephiroth stopped short two cots away, letting the old Turk hurry past him.

“Felicia!” Veld’s voice, tight with worry, carried beyond the pulled curtain.

“Daddy?” Elfe sounded weak and tired, her voice disturbingly small. “You shouldn’t be in here…”

“Try and throw me out,” Veld replied tenderly. “I’m not leavin’ until you do.”

They fell silent then, and Sephiroth did his best to exit without making too much noise. However, combat boots on a tile floor were not a combination designed for stealth.

“Who’s there?” Elfe asked amid a rustle of bedclothes and a brief cry of pain.

“Sephiroth,” Veld told her. “He let me in.”

“I want to see him.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Give me a hand?”

There was a further rustling of fabric, some muffled cursing, and Veld poked his head past the edge of the curtain.

“She wants to talk to you.”

Unsure if _he_ would be able to say anything, Sephiroth pushed the curtain back and stood at the foot of Elfe’s bed. She sat propped against several pillows, her white cloak draped over her shoulders, but pinned on her left side instead of the right. Sephiroth could just make out the shape of her right arm bound in a sling beneath the snowy fabric, the tips of blackened fingers barely visible behind the hem. It was not the only thing hidden by the cloak. No doubt she had not wished to meet him in a state of undress. The sleeve of a hospital smock- pastel pink with darker rosebuds sprinkled across it- stuck out uncovered and absurd from the folds of the cloak. Muddy splotches dotted her left arm, as if she’d been spritzed with the rinse water of an enthusiastic painter. Her face was yet untouched, but there were shadows beneath her eyes and she looked exhausted. Not knowing what else to do, Sephiroth fell back on old habits, pulling himself up to stand at attention and offering her a formal salute. Elfe mirrored it with her left hand.

“At ease,” she told him, mouth tugging to one side in a half-smile. For a long moment she looked at him, as if examining his dress and posture for inspection. He half expected her to ask about his wing, but no such inquiry was forthcoming. At last her eyes met his. There was a strange lack of accusation there, which Sephiroth had not expected. He’d made a beautiful mess of things, beginning with Vincent and ending with Jenova- and the disaster was only likely to grow worse. Thank gods he’d thought to cede command to her before he’d lost his senses or they’d be in worse shape than they presently were.

“You knew that would happen,” she stated. “You knew Jenova would try to puppet you. That’s why you transferred command.”

Guilty as charged, he nodded.

“Has this happened before?”

Ashamed, he looked at the floor. “Yes. It happened once before, when I was sent to Nibelheim. I found Vincent there and encountered Jenova for the first time. If not for him, I would have killed my men.” And probably much worse, but that was something he actively avoided thinking about.

Elfe nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t recommend you returning to duty.”

“Nor I you,” he returned, nodding at her bandaged arm. “I didn’t do that, did I?”

She shook her head. “Not directly, no. We fought, but I’m reasonably sure this is entirely Jenova’s fault.” Nudging her cloak back, she stiffly held up fingers that looked as if they were melting, the skin black-brown, peeling, and running with ooze. Although most of her hand was bandaged, the strips of linen were growing soggy with the muddy fluid, creating a clear outline of the materia shard embedded in her hand.

“Zirconiade is doing her best to keep it at bay, but Jenova doesn’t seem to like her or me very much,” Elfe went on. “We were able to cure the rest of the troops with the water from the healing rain, but it didn’t have much effect on me. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Vincent was the only one I knew who had survived a case of Geostigma,” Sephiroth shrugged, “and I think that was primarily due to Chaos protecting him.”

“I only have half a materia,” Elfe mused.

“You need the rest,” Sephiroth finished. “If you had a whole materia, Zirconiade could drive the Jenova out of your system.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose you know where to find the other two shards?”

His gut reaction was to say ‘no’, but rather than make an immediate reply, he kept his mouth shut and thought about it. Back at Corel prison, both Elfe and Shalua had mentioned Professor Hojo had treated them. Shalua’s materia shard had been encased in a customized fitting so that it could power her prosthetic arm. He’d seen such a thing before, years ago, but at the time had not thought much about it. All mechanized prosthetics were powered by materia, usually the green magic type. The materia was commonly mounted in the joint nearest the body. Both Veld and Shalua had materia mounted in the shoulders of their false arms. Vincent’s arm, because his model was much earlier, had had a dangerous and impractical bit of wiring connecting the prosthetic to the materia in his chest. Shalua had since retrofit his arm with a magic type materia also mounted in the shoulder. The only other person Sephiroth knew with a prosthetic limb was Lazard. The incident that had cost his old commander the lower half of his right leg had also earned Sephiroth his rank as Captain. Later, Lazard had proudly showed off the shiny new limb-at the time, a piece of cutting edge technology. There had been no colored stone in his knee joint, just a flat circle of metal: a custom made fitting designed to hide something much more valuable.

“I think I may know where one is, yes.”

Elfe blinked, surprised. “You do?”

“I’ll need to confirm it, but my old commanding officer lost part of his leg in Wutai. His materia socket had a fitting similar to Shalua’s.”

“Contact him,” Elfe told him, the words not quite an order. “See if he’s willing to part with it.”

“If he has it, he will be,” Sephiroth assured her.

“Do you know of anyone else who might have one? Professor Hojo can’t have treated _that_ many people.”

“You’d be surprised…” Sephiroth grumbled, mostly to himself. And then it came to him. The CDs Veld had copied for him. They were still in his jacket pocket. It was entirely possible they held the information he needed. The epiphany must have showed on his face, for Elfe’s expression grew hopeful.

“You have an idea?”

“I might have a lead.”

“Good,” she said with a nod. “Now what are we going to do with you and all the other SOLDIERs?”

A much thornier problem. Sephiroth pondered that one for a moment.

“Let me talk to them,” he began. “Let me see where their heads are. Rui said they no longer carry any Jenova. They are free of her will. If I tell them to follow you, they will.”

Elfe nodded. “Do that. Let me know how they are; if you think they’re fit for duty.”

“I will,” he promised.

“And what about you? Are you safe?”

“None of us are safe.” The words left his mouth before he’d even realized they were there. It was unlike him to speak before he thought. Elfe, however, took his remark in stride.

“I guess that’s true. All soldiers are killers; potentially lethal weapons, whether they carry Jenova or not. We’ve all been trained to take lives in order to spare others. However, a weapon in and of itself isn’t necessarily dangerous. A sword isn’t likely to harm anyone if it’s just sitting there in its sheath.”

Sephiroth could not decide if the remark was aimed at him or not. Veld appeared to be wondering the same thing, for he looked at his daughter quizzically. Ignoring them both, Elfe went on.

“Neither one of us is fit for command. Who would you pick?”

“Your second, Shears, ought to command in your stead,” he said immediately. The Avalanche sub-commander was a no-nonsense leader with plenty of experience to his name. Although he held more hostility toward Shinra than Elfe, if she gave him an order, he would obey it.

“And for Shinra?”

That was a bit harder. “All my officers are also SOLDIERs,” he said slowly. “Genesis is next in the chain of command. He carries as much Jenova as I do, but he’s limited by his injury. He can make rounds and give orders but…” Sephiroth sighed through his nose. Allowing Genesis command fell somewhere between pleasing the younger man’s vanity and nursing his own guilt over the events before and after Genesis’ own defection from Shinra. He and Genesis both carried Jenova’s cells and were therefore at risk of falling prey to her will. The hazard was too great. Neither of them were fit to lead. Therefore… “Colonel Fair is next in the chain of command and carries no Jenova. Command must fall to him.”

Elfe considered his suggestion, then nodded. “I agree.” Unable to suppress a sigh, she rubbed her eyes with her undamaged hand.

“I’ll let you rest,” Sephiroth told her, dismissing himself.

“No, we’re not done,” Elfe countered. “Is there a way I can speak to President Rufus?” They’d begun calling the new president that in order to differentiate him from his father. “I also need to talk to Tseng.”

Under quarantine, there was no way Elfe could leave this wing of the hospital even if she had possessed the strength to get out of bed. Tseng and Rufus could don protective clothing, but it was still a risk. They could not afford to have Rufus come down with Geostigma. Veld, however, looked thoughtful.

“What about a video conference?” he suggested.

Elfe blinked. “A what?”

“A video conference. Elena knows how to do it. We could set up a video camera and a computer in here, and another in the town hall,” Veld explained. “That way, you could see and hear each other as if you were in the same room.”

“Okay, let’s do that,” she agreed. “Daddy, can you go and set it up?”

“What, now?” Veld asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

The old Turk looked at his daughter, at the General, and back again, suspicion lingering in his eyes.

“I’ll be fine, Daddy. Really,” Elfe assured him.

Reluctantly, Veld got up and cast Sephiroth a narrow-eyed look before heading for the end of the hall and the decontamination unit. Elfe noticed it and bit her lip against a smile.

“I swear, he thinks I’m still a kid,” she observed. Sephiroth smiled a little at this. Veld was not a bad sort, Turk though he might be. As a group they had an unsavory reputation, but as individuals, Sephiroth had discovered they were remarkably kind and loyal in their own way. It must be strange to have someone wander back into one’s life after so long, but in his heart, Sephiroth envied Elfe her restored relationship with her father. This made him think of Vincent even as Elfe asked him:

“Are you okay?”

He had been up until then. Sorting out command and other details had given him something else to think about, something to do. He wasn’t used to being asked such personal questions by people not wearing white lab coats, not that they ever asked out of anything but duty. This, by contrast, seemed genuine.

“Fine,” he answered automatically. Elfe did not look as if she believed him.

“I clocked you pretty good during the fight- with the flat of my sword no less. What did Shalua say about it?”

Sephiroth shrugged carefully, his neck still sore. “No serious damage. I have a thick skull.”

He had not meant it to be funny, but Elfe chuckled. However, the smile melted away after a moment, and she gestured for him to take Veld’s seat. Obediently, Sephiroth sat down on the straight-backed wooden chair, doing his best to remain at attention. His neck still hurt and his wing was in the way. Seated, they were eye-to-eye, and although outwardly he did not flinch, inwardly he squirmed as Elfe’s blue eyes searched his face.

“Do you remember any of the battle?”

Sephiroth carefully shook his head. “No.”

“Did anyone tell you what happened?”

“Somewhat. We won, after a fashion. Aeris summoned the healing rain which cured most of the SOLDIERs and all of the Geostigma patients. However, Jenova swallowed Chaos and fled, making Vincent the only casualty.”

It was as if someone else was speaking, his General’s voice rattling off a report of facts and figures like a machine. He was glad no one else had been hurt, but it was hard to feel happy about it. He’d stabbed Vincent, causing him to turn into Chaos. Chaos, in turn, had fought Jenova and lost. It reminded him a bit of the incident back at Nibelheim. Vincent had spared him then, just as he’d spared him now. There was no need to execute a man who was already dead.

But was he dead? Vincent had four other creatures living in his head, sharing his body. Even if Chaos was bested, surely the others would step in to continue the fight? The real question was whether or not they could stand against Jenova. Sephiroth’s heart sank even further as he realized that no, they could not. Even the Gallian Beast was mortal. If Chaos could not hold his own against the Crisis, there was no way a handful of humans could. They might prolong the battle, but if Chaos did not win, the rest of them would surely perish along with him.

Why should it matter that the Turk was dead? What was Vincent to him? He was no relation, barely more than a friend. Everyone, including Vincent himself, had denied any family ties. Sephiroth had known virtually nothing about him, except that he had been one of Professor Hojo’s experiments, and that he had once been in love with his mother, Lucrecia. Although glad to be freed from the coffin, Vincent had never been happy; haunted constantly by the ghosts of terrors and transgressions long since past. Perhaps, it was better this way? At least it had been a warrior’s death, a noble end; and now Vincent would finally be able rejoin the Planet and his beautiful Lucrecia. He could be at peace. There was some consolation to be had in that.

It did not make it hurt any less.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “He was someone close to you, wasn’t he.”

Sephiroth jerked out of his train of thought and looked away. “No,” he said quietly, “but I wish he was.”

He started as he felt her fingers curl around his. Bemused, he blinked at their joined hands.

“Sorry…” she said, moving to withdraw her hand, but Sephiroth closed his own around it, holding it in place.

“No, it’s…” he stammered, choking back a sudden surge of emotion. “It’s okay.”

She smiled gently, squeezing his hand briefly, and though he had to swallow back his grief a second time, it did not hurt as much as it had earlier.

“Take some time,” she told him gently. “Recover. I’ve got to, so you might to as well, until you’re cleared for duty.”

Unable to gather any words, he nodded. For a long moment he just sat there, looking at nothing, mind swirling with thoughts but settling on none of them. Elfe waited patiently, hand in his, until he returned to earth.

“I’m sorry about Fuhito,” he said at last. 

Elfe nodded, accepting the apology. “I’m not angry with you. The Turk did his best to make it right. Nothing more needs to be said about it.”

He didn't know where the smile came from. Perhaps he had not recognized it as such- small and fragile as it was- until it had appeared on his face. Far from happy, he was nonetheless grateful. He could see why she had become a leader in her own right. Unsure what to say in light of her graciousness, Sephiroth simply nodded.

“I should let you rest,” he repeated, finding his voice at last. “Veld will be back with the video equipment soon.”

“Going to deprive him of the pleasure of kicking you out?” she teased.

This time his smile was real, if closed-lipped, a brief snort of laughter behind it. “He’d enjoy it too much. Get some rest.” Patting her hand once, he let it go.

“Only if you do,” she called after him, the words somewhere between a dare and a command. It wasn’t easy, but he looked back over his shoulder and smiled for her.

\--

 

Sephiroth barely remembered standing in the decontamination unit; walking down the hall. He felt dazed, detached, as if someone else- mercifully not Jenova, she’d been silent since the battle- were piloting his body while he simply rode as a passenger. The ward was quiet. Zack’s bed was empty, but Genesis was still there. Sephiroth had thought he was dozing, but Genesis opened his eyes and sat up at his approach. Taking one look at his friend, he asked:

“What happened?”

Sephiroth sank down onto his cot, expression so utterly blank, so completely neutral that Genesis knew it had to be something serious.

“Vincent died,” Sephiroth said quietly, “and Elfe held my hand.”

Genesis had nothing at all to say to that, the two halves of the sentence so disparate that there was no way to comment on them both at once. He wasn’t even sure which to address first. For a long moment all he could do was stare at his friend, utterly dumbstruck.

“You… _What?_ ” he managed after several minutes. It was neither polite nor consolatory, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

“Vincent died. He transformed into Chaos and went over the gorge with Jenova. I’m told she swallowed him whole.”

“I’m sorry…” Genesis stammered, not knowing what else to offer his friend. Sephiroth had spoken of the red-eyed Turk as if he’d been family. Only he and Angeal had ever known how desperately Sephiroth longed for the one thing he could not win through hard work or knowledge: blood relatives. If the Turk had truly been the father Sephiroth had never known, that would explain the too-placid expression on his friend’s face.

Sephiroth, however, was already on to the next problem. Flagging one of the nurses, he spoke with her for a minute and then rummaged in his coat pocket, producing a pair of CDs.

Genesis blinked. “‘Loveless’? I thought you were sick of my recitations,” he teased.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Sephiroth replied, taking a closed laptop from the nurse. Sitting back down on the cot, he opened the computer and started it up.

“What is it then?”

Selecting one of the CDs, Sephiroth slotted it into the drive and pocketed the other. “Home movies,” he replied absently. “May be a lead. I’m not sure yet.”

There weren’t that many files left. He’d already gone over everything regarding the SOLDIER program. Indeed, there were only a handful of movie and PDF files he had not yet looked at. Taking a deep breath, Sephiroth pressed the earbuds into his ears and selected the first movie.

He had expected more black-and-white, yet this film was shot in grainy color. That alone made him wonder, as did the strangely familiar setting. The walls were only partially painted, but he recognized the old training arena, back before the holographic simulator had been built. It was still used for training the new recruits against low-level monsters and each other. Here, however, it was still new. Indeed, it was barely finished, the raw wood and fresh paint as untested as the first SOLDIER that stood in the midst of it.

The memory came back to him then, and the film seemed to play from two different angles at the same time: one from the camera trained on the gray-haired boy in the middle of the sand, the other from behind his own eyes. The child on the film looked as if he were at least twelve, but Sephiroth had been eight the first time he set foot inside the arena. The sand had felt strange under feet that had only known carpet, linoleum, or concrete. He had not set foot on grass until he was nearly thirteen. The Professor had warned him that he would be facing a monster that day. He had been provided with various hints, and then left to figure out the rest on his own. He had learned all he could about his unnamed foe, and felt confident in his knowledge and the sword in his hands. However, when the sand began to rumble beneath his feet, a horrible thrill had shot through him, and he realized this was what it meant to be afraid.

The snake burst from the sand, all one hundred fifty feet of it, tail rattling and fangs bared. Although it was not evident on the film, Sephiroth distinctly remembered wetting himself. A Midgar Zolom was considered an A-Level enemy and too intense for less than a 3rd Class SOLDIER. Why the hell anyone had thought a child of eight- even a large, strong, unusually smart child like himself- would be able to subdue such a creature Sephiroth couldn’t begin to guess.

He watched as his eight-year-old self gripped the shortsword in both hands, remembering how sweaty his palms had been against the leather grip. The snake reared and plunged, its gaping mouth and razor fangs bearing down on him. He scrambled to one side, falling more than leaping, awkwardly rolling to his feet. The sand beneath him began to rumble, countless grains pouring over his boots until he was up to his ankles. Around him, the sand began to swirl. Panic surged through him like a bolt of lightning and he leaped for the edge, scrambled up, and rushed straight at the thing. The snake seemed confused by this tactic, and he took advantage of its indecision as to where to direct its long neck by stabbing its scaly hide.

The Zolom screeched and whipped away, its body coiling over and over like a garden hose filling with water. He’d done little more than make it angry, the wound he’d left no more than a pinprick. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it, but still turned too late. The two-pronged rattle caught him in the middle, knocking the sword from his hands and sending him across the length of the arena into the wall. There was a sickening “clunk” as his head struck the cinderblocks. For half a breath he hung plastered against the wall before he peeled off and fell face-first into the sand.

Sephiroth had expected the tape to fizz to an end, for static to fill the screen, because that was where his own memories of that battle ended. However, the film played on. An alarm began to blare, further incensing the snake. A figure in a white lab coat rushed into the enclosure. Sephiroth blinked and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the degraded footage. Surely not. It couldn’t be! But it was.

Professor Hojo- a much shorter iteration of his ponytail bound at the back of his head- was sprinting across the sand. The Zolom turned at the noise, and lunged at the Professor. With a grace and agility Sephiroth had not expected, the Professor dove out of the way, snatching up the sword that Sephiroth had dropped. The snake reared up so that it towered over him, twin rattles shaking a dire warning as the Professor slowly circled around to the far side of the arena where his prized specimen lay senseless. When he reached the unconscious boy, the Professor sank into a ready stance, sword held up in only one hand.

His _left_ hand.

Sephiroth could only stare at the screen in disbelief, half wondering if the whole thing had been staged? The Professor dodged and feinted, clearly it was not the first time he’d held a blade in his hands even if his movements were a bit stiff and unpracticed. Perhaps it was because of this that the next time the snake struck, it connected. The Professor howled as the long fangs sank into his flesh. However, the yell of pain turned to a battle cry as he plunged the sword into the thing’s head. The snake screamed, rearing back and flailing wildly, the hilt sticking out between its eyes. With a final screech it fell heavily to the sand with a mighty “THWUMP”. The Professor scrambled back from its trembling body on elbows and backside, his left leg leaving a gleaming trail of red across the sand. Yanking off his belt, he rethreaded it just below his knee, pulling it tight. The blood slowed, but did not stop.

As if his improvised tourniquet had shut off feeling as well as blood flow, he crawled over to the boy who lay motionless a few feet away. Sephiroth watched, bemused, as the Professor ran his hands over the small body, checking for broken bones or worse. He felt the little head and neck for fractures, pried the small eyelids open. Abruptly, he doubled over the child, throwing his arms around it. Despite the poor quality of the film, even from this distance, he could see the Professor’s shoulders shaking beneath his white coat. He saw it, but he didn’t believe it: the Professor was crying over him.

Others began to swarm into the picture: white-coated researchers, doctors, nurses, and a team of infantry to dispose of the Zolom. Only then did the picture abruptly cut out, disappearing into a blur of static.

Well now.

Sephiroth had already taken so many metaphorical punches to the stomach in the last few hours that one more barely registered. This film had not been tragic and wrenching the way the earlier clips had been, but had carried a wallop of its own, the sheer strangeness of it striking him like a blow. Sephiroth looked down at his left hand; the hand he used to wield Masamune, the hand Elfe had taken and held not so long ago. He had seen the Professor write, but he had always used his right hand. However, now that he thought about it, it occurred to Sephiroth that the Professor had done virtually everything else with his other hand: injections, measurements, even gestures.

Zolom venom was fatal, or would have been at the time. Standard treatment up until very recently had been to remove the injured limb with all possible speed before the poison reached the heart. It was therefore extremely likely that the Professor had a prosthetic leg himself. Whether or not he had kept the final Zirconiade shard to power it was still unknown, but seemed likely. Hoping it would provide a clue, Sephiroth opened the last folder.

At first he thought perhaps Elena, in her copying frenzy, had accidentally included something superfluous. There were dozens of movie files, each less than five minutes long, most only a few seconds. The footage was black-and-white, and of the same amazingly poor quality as the rest. Watching the first film, Sephiroth was again struck by the fact that he dimly remembered doing the same thing as the little boy on screen. The date stamp in the corner said he would have been about seven at the time.

At first the snippets were just footage of the same sort of Phys Ed nonsense that every grade schooler had to go through: sprints, throwing and catching, climbing, and so forth. It looked as if the Science Department had logged a fitness reel of him each year every summer- about a week before his birthday, now that he knew when it was. Once he turned ten, however, the clips began to increase in length. Sword maneuvers were added, as well as hand-to-hand sparring. A couple featured him swimming, doing every stroke about six inches below the waterline. Sephiroth couldn’t help a small chuckle at that. SOLDIERs were not known for their buoyancy. However, he was not the only one to have a highlight reel. There were five other folders of film clips; two labeled as “Project G”, and three more each bearing a different serial number. Unsure he could bear to watch his friends as children- even if Genesis was still alive and half-asleep in the bed next to his- Sephiroth left that folder untouched, and instead opened those marked with only numbers.

Dear gods. Apparently everyone had embarrassing baby pictures, no exceptions. The first featured the red-headed woman who had attacked them at Cleo’s back in Sector 7. Rosso could not possibly have been more than six or seven in the first one, Jenova or not. It was surreal to watch a doll-faced girl with strawberry ringlets maul a sparring dummy, practically break her ankle on an obstacle course, and do flips and tumbling passes that would put an adult gymnast to shame.

The next serial number belonged to a bulky little boy with a wild thatch of white-blonde hair that made Cloud’s seem neat by comparison. The date stamp said this footage had been taken the same day as Rosso’s. Although the boy was almost as tall as she was, he had the clumsy movements and soft features of a younger child. Sephiroth guessed him to be at least a year behind her, perhaps more. Maybe five or six. He had to remove a thick collar and heavy chains that looked as if they’d be more at home in a medieval dungeon before he could be put through his paces. Children often broke things by mistake, but the boy in the film seemed to be unnecessarily hard on the equipment. Everything was in pieces by the time he was done. _Small_ pieces.

The last set featured another boy, this one small and babyish compared to the other two. He also looked a lot younger, more like the child he was. Where the other boy was fair, this one was dark. An untidy mop of blue-black hair fell into his eyes. Little could be seen of his face, a mask similar to the particle filters on infantry helmets covering everything but his eyes. Even behind the mask, he looked painfully young. Sephiroth would not have put him at more than five, and a recent five at that. Well, he had started as young himself. Unlike the other two, he didn’t seem to want to do as instructed. Instead, he dropped through a hole that had suddenly appeared in the floor, reappearing through another hole halfway across the room. Sephiroth felt his brow crease, watching this strange phenomenon. Most of the black-haired boy’s clips were the same until he got a bit older, mostly consisting of him playing an intricate cross of hide-and-seek and tag with his keepers.

There were at least as many film clips of Angeal, Genesis, and the Deepground children as there were of him, the last of the segments filmed some time during the Wutai war. Sephiroth bypassed these, not wanting to relive those days. He had been twelve when he joined the regular army, fifteen when hostilities broke out. Not all his time overseas had been unpleasant, but there were no doubt instances captured on film that he had no desire to remember.

In a separate folder were a series of spreadsheets, each corresponding to a set of film clips. Apparently he and the other children had been routinely compared to one another in order to assess which child and associated training method was superior. In almost all of them, Sephiroth had come out on top. This was perhaps to be expected since he was the oldest of the lot. However, the others were never far behind him. With these were copies of several letters arguing over where which child should be placed. Evidently the Professor, Hollander, and whoever was running Deepground had all been in competition to develop the best method for breeding and training children with Jenova’s DNA. It didn’t look as if a decision had ever been reached. Or had it?

Hollander was dead, as was Angeal. However, Project Gillian had breathed its last when his friends defected from Shinra. That left just the Professor and Deepground. Now that Sephiroth had defected himself, did that mean that Shirna would rely solely on Deepground for Jenova-enhanced troops? The SOLDIER program had a lot of holes in its ethics code, but none of his men had suffered the sort of things Azul had described. Funny. Before this, he would not have thought of the Professor’s methods as humane, but held up against Deepground, they seemed positively indulgent.

Sephiroth frowned at the file names of each of the spreadsheets. The innumerable documents stored within the Shinra archives were tagged by department with descriptors like “SCIDEP” for the Science Department or “UDEV” for Urban Development. All of the Deepground files were labeled “WDEV”: Weapons Development.

The revelation struck him between the eyes, sending his thoughts reeling. Had Scarlett known about this? Surely not. She would have put an end to it years ago. Most everyone in her department dealt with firearms and materia. It was entirely likely no one was aware these files had been hidden among schematics for rifles and canons. Deepground was manufacturing human weapons just as Shinra proper was churning out guns and grenades. Sephiroth added another item to his mental “To Do” list and set the computer aside. Digging out his phone, he thumbed a brief message to Tseng:

_Conf 0900_  
AVLCH, SLDR, Rufus, you.  
Have plan. 


	50. Man to Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Weiss has his "Normal" ruined.
> 
> Because this is Deepground, the usual warnings apply:  
> 1\. Not intended for readers under 18.  
> 2\. NSFW  
> 3\. Triggery content including rape, violence, and generally amazingly poor treatment of people, particularly women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for another Deepground chapter!  
>  All of you under 18? Out.  
>  The following is so intensely NSFW.  
>  Trigger Warnings: Rape and general needless violence against those who can’t defend themselves. Hey, it’s Deepground. :P

 

Nero found Weiss in his thinking spot. Few people ventured so close to the ancient reactor, but the leakage wouldn’t do a thing to Weiss or any of the other colored Tsviets. If they hadn’t died of makou poisoning by now, they never would. The buttresses that held up the cooling tower angled in just above the access walkway, forming a ring of over-sized chairs that looked out over the subterranean city. Weiss sat hunched in one of them, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees.

“Something on your mind?” Nero asked, making himself comfortable on the floor. “You were awfully quiet at practice.”

“It was my turn with the Mothers,” Weiss began, not lifting his chin from where it rested on his knees. “And…” he paused, searching for words. Nero waited patiently, hoping Weiss would elaborate. Due to his dependence on stagnant makou, nearly all of Nero’s interpersonal encounters were second-hand. Listening to Weiss, Rosso, Azul, and Argento allowed him some measure of intimacy even if it was only in his own imagination.

“I figured something out,” Weiss said at last.”I’m not sure the Mothers like being Mothers. I’m not sure they _want_ to be Mothers.” Turning his head, Weiss’ ice blue eyes searched Nero’s face for an answer. “...does that make sense?”

Nero blinked. It didn’t make any sense at all. As far as he knew, Mothers existed for one reason: to bear children. If they were lucky enough to survive the birth, they might nurse and take care of their babies until they were old enough to be admitted into the nursery. If they were able, the Mothers went right back to having more children; if not, they would be admitted into ranks as JANEs.

“Not really,” he admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Because of Rosso.”

Nero squinted, wondering if he were seeing things. Although the luminance of the energized makou cast everything in an eerie green light, Weiss’ face and shoulders had flushed an unmistakable pink.

“It never happened like that for her before. You saw. She liked it. She said so. A couple of the Mothers liked it too, I think.” Doubt pulled at his features, creasing his brow. “But most of them didn’t.”

Nero blushed a bit himself at the memory. Before then, Rosso had never seemed all that interested in sex, and had beat more than one soldier to a bloody pulp for invading her personal space. Rosso didn’t feel pain, barely felt physical sensation at all. Maybe that was why she’d never done anything besides put up with Weiss until he was done. Sometimes she would shout or smack him if he did something she didn’t like, but ordinarily she let him get it out of his system without much fuss. She’d never… He tried to think of a word for it, but couldn’t find one. 

“How do you know?” he asked, curious. Rosso was one thing, it had been easy to see the last time had been different for her, but he’d only had one short-lived experience with a Mother himself. He hadn’t gotten very far before she’d become surrounded by his shadows and disappeared out from under him.Luckily, she hadn’t been hurt and had been found a few days later in a broom closet. He’d been banned from rotation after that.

“Well,” Weiss began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand- an uncharacteristic gesture. “You’ve had sex with a girl, right?”

Nero shrugged. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Weiss chewed his lip, trying to think how to explain. “Right, well, they’ll push back with their hips if they like it. They’ll help, like Rosso did.” Scarlet spread across his shoulders, up his throat and into his face, and he looked away, suddenly shy. “A couple of the Mothers helped too, but most of them didn’t.”

Nero nodded, trying hard to follow. “So...you think they didn’t like it?”

Weiss did not answer right away. “...you know where adult recruits come from, right?”

“Sure. Convicts, prisoners of war, vagrants, people like that. People from the Outside.”

“These women...the Mothers...they didn’t sign up for this the way Azul did. They don’t want to be here, and they don’t want to be mothers, at least not like that.”

The stricken look on Weiss’ face hit Nero like a punch in the gut. Not knowing what else to do, Nero got to his feet and went to stand next to him.

“I don’t know why he didn’t tell me,” his brother went on. “Azul used to tell me to be nice, to be a gentleman. I still don’t even know what the hell he meant by that, except I think now maybe I do? I didn’t want to hurt them...not any of them… They’re Mothers… I just…”

“You...didn’t know,” Nero told him awkwardly, trying to be comforting.

“But now I do.”

“Does that change things?”

For a long while, Weiss said nothing. Elbows leaning on his knees and chin in his hands, he thought long and hard. Thought and thought, until he thought a hole in the ground, as Azul liked to say. After many minutes, Weiss straightened and stood.

“Yes,” he said decisively. “It does.”

 

\--

 

Ordinarily, Weiss didn’t pay much attention to the other troops unless he was directly engaging them in the arena. He didn’t think much of killing them; never had. Many of them were what Azul called “Dogs”: heavily engineered beasts barely capable of comprehending human speech. Most of the “Natural Born” troops- as the children of the Mothers were informally known- were still too young for him to bother with. The oldest were around ten and would not be added to ranks for another three years at least. Normally it was the Recruits- the troops brought in from the Outside- that were the most interesting. They also had the hardest time adjusting; it seemed they couldn’t get it through their heads how things were done in Deepground. They were always getting into trouble with their COs, with the Restrictors, the other troops, with everyone, really. 

At present, there was a JANE having trouble with one of the JOEs. He was one of the older soldiers, though not an officer. Weiss had seen him more than once in ranks. The JANE was obviously new. The JOE had one of her arms twisted awkwardly behind her back and a knife against her throat. Her trousers had been torn off in such a way that they hung ragged and ruined around her knees. His merely sagged around his hips as he pushed her harder and harder against the wall.

This was none of his business. He should not be watching, but Weiss stood still as if frozen in place, an unwilling witness. Tears had begun to stream down the JANE’s cheeks. If she didn’t like it, she should fight him off. That was the way it worked. Rosso had had a JOE try to force himself on her when she was nine. Weiss and Nero had ganged up on the soldier in question and had been punished severely for their interference. However, their counter-attack had been vicious enough that no further attempt was made on Rosso until she was nearly thirteen. By then, she was big enough and strong enough to fend for herself.

The JANE was of middling height for a woman, but thin in a way that suggested malnutrition rather than a naturally slender build. Blood had begun to bead up from her skin beneath the knife blade. Weiss had seen people bleed so often it had become trite and unimportant. He, Rosso, and Nero slaughtered dozens of troops a day in the arena. But this was different. This was not a fair fight. This was just _mean_.

In three long steps he crossed the hall, seized the JOE by his collar, and tossed him calmly over his shoulder. The man went sailing through the air and then the wall. Dust rose in a gray cloud as bits of brick and mortar crumbled from the hole he’d left. The JOE’s head lay bent at an odd angle, highly indicative of a severed spine. Weiss didn’t care. His satisfaction at the soldier’s death was different from his smug victories in the arena. This seemed at once smaller and larger, and a good deal more honest.

Turning away from the dead soldier, he looked at the JANE. She shrank back against the wall, pinching her knees together and trying to use her hands to block his view. The JOE had ripped her trousers so badly that they were useless. Stooping, he yanked the trousers off the JOE’s inert body and offered them to her. For a moment she just started at them, then at him, and again at the trousers.

“Here,” Weiss said in what he hoped was a non-threatening tone, pushing the trousers into her hands. She took them wordlessly, continuing to stare at him open-mouthed. After a moment she shook herself, hastily stepped into them, and took off running. Turning around, Weiss noted the reason for her flight. A Restrictor stood just behind him, arms crossed beneath its black cloak.

“What?” Weiss dared to ask it. The thing just stared at him from behind its mask.

“Does it matter if they’re male or female? What’s one more dead soldier to you?” It dawned on him then that the JOE would not have let her live. He would have killed her when he was through.

The Restrictor considered him for a moment more before replying, its voice like an ancient loudspeaker: “Nothing at all.”

Without further comment, it moved on down the hall, and Weiss stared after it, wondering.

 

\--

 

When he had questions- delicate questions- Weiss usually consulted Azul. However, the big man had not yet returned. There were rumors he’d been captured, or that he had defected, but Weiss didn’t believe either one for a minute. Azul would return when the mission was complete and not before. In the meantime, he would ask Argento. Indeed, she might actually know more about it, being a woman herself.

As usual, Argento was in busy in her forge, a pile of damaged specialty weapons sitting on the shelves, waiting for her attention.

“Immaculate,” she greeted him with a smile and a nod. It was an old joke between them since Weiss was rarely neat even if he was clean. “To what do I owe the honor?”

She handed him a set of tongs and a pair of gloves. Her work must not stop, but that didn’t mean she would refuse him. Pulling the gloves on, Weiss took the tongs and lifted the indicated bit of glowing metal out of the furnace.

“Where do they keep the Mothers?” he asked, positioning the bent steel on the anvil and holding it steady. Argento blinked, arm poised in mid-air, hammer in her hand.

“Why would you know?” she countered, bringinging the hammer down with a resounding clang. She pounded away for a few minutes before asking: “Has something happened?”

At her direction, he put the metal back into the hot coals. While it heated, he briefly related discovering that Rosso could feel pleasure, and the pains he had taken to ensure that Jane had a similar experience. Argento listened thoughtfully, face impassive. Weiss took the steel from the fire and held it for her as she worked it, banging away as if forging her answer from the twisted metal.

“All knowledge comes with a price,” she said at last. “If you would know what it is to be a Mother, ask your brother. He will know of what you speak. He can show you where to find your answer.”

\--

Weiss had originally thought about going to the medical bay and asking about Jane. Although that wasn’t her real name, and he didn’t know her serial number, it would be easy enough for one of the doctors to look up whom he’d been with last. However, that would draw attention to her, and he didn’t want anyone thinking she was special to him. No good would come of that. Argento was right. Nero would know where to find her.

It wasn’t all that difficult to locate Nero if one knew where to look. The younger man was nowhere to be found when he wasn’t scheduled to be somewhere like sparring practice or mess. Nero had always preferred to hide in the shadows whenever he could. Turning his back to one of the dim, greenish overhead lights, Weiss called into his own shadow: “Nero?”

His shadow rippled like a pond disturbed, and after a moment, Nero’s head surfaced from the darkness.

“What?” he asked.

“I need you to take me to Jane.”

Nero blinked. “Say what?”

“I need to talk to her,” Weiss went on. “Argento said you’d know where she is.”

“Well, yeah…” Nero said slowly. “But men aren’t supposed to go in there. No one is.”

Weiss huffed an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to fuck her, I just want to talk to her. It’s _important_.”

For a long moment his brother just looked at him. Eventually, he nodded and grabbed Weiss’ hands. “Okay, come on.”

Taking a deep breath, Weiss let Nero pull him into the shadows.

\--

Because Deepground had been built over like a lost civilization, virtually every square inch was cast in darkness and therefore available to Nero. Wherever there were shadows he could wander freely. As children, all three of them had often snuck off to explore, courtesy of Nero’s gift for shadows. However, the empty blackness was cold and deep to those infused with bright green Light Makou, and the shadows left red, chapped patches like chilblains on Weiss and Rosso’s skin, giving them away. Only Nero still disappeared into the darkness when he was not needed, and Weiss envied him the luxury of escaping, even if temporarily, the Restrictors’ ever-watchful eyes.

The Mothers, it turned out, were kept beneath Sector Three in one of the many networks of caves deep below the substructure of Underplate, beneath even the subway, the sewer, and the service tunnels. The walls of the natural tunnels were stained a pleasant mako-green, making it seem as if the caves were underwater and not underground. Little wooden doors painted pastel colors lined the walls. Had he known what a college dormitory looked like, it might have reminded Weiss of that. Women dressed in either smocks or scrubs wandered the hall and in and out of doors. Shadow to shadow, Weiss and Nero followed them. One of the women- her stomach huge under her smock- was heading down another corridor. Hurriedly, Nero leaped into her shadow, and she pulled them along unknowingly, like a Chocobo with a cart.

Nero craned his neck, trying to look up her skirt, and Weiss elbowed him sharply. Nero elbowed him back, but refocused on the task at hand. The woman pulled them past more colorful doors and an area with plastic chairs gathered around circular tables. It took Weiss a moment to work out that this was the mess hall. They were forced to leap to another woman’s shadow- this one dressed in scrubs with soil pressed into the knees. She was much thinner than the pregnant Mother they’d just left, her stomach flat beneath her baggy shirt.

The corridor she went down was at once darker and brighter than the others. Nero shrank back as warm, yellowish light expanded her shadow and the smell of earth rose up around them. Unless one counted the gray lichen that grew on the rusty bunkers, or the black and slimy mold in the showers, Weiss had never seen plants up close. The overwhelming _greenness_ of it all made him want to sneeze. Dust and pollen floated thick in the air under the bright lights. Stretching as far as he dared, Weiss craned to look as Nero had.

There was green everywhere- and not the poisonous yellow-green of the miasma from Reactor Zero. Bright green, deep green; leaves so dark they looked black, blades of grass so vibrant they hurt his eyes. Plants grew up from the ground in raised boxes, and hung down from the ceiling like frilly green light fixtures. Amid the green hid other colors: red, orange, yellow, and pink. Blossoms, seed pods, and what could only be whole fruit dotted the bushes and vines, adding a deeper, more nuanced fragrance to so much green.

“What is all this?” Weiss breathed.

“It’s a garden,” Nero whispered. “For growing food. You can eat just about everything in here, both the different colored parts and the green.”

“Really?” Weiss asked, fascinated. All his life he had only seen food in its final form: diced, stewed, salted, and packaged in plastic so it would be safe to eat any time in the next three years.

“Yeah,” Nero whispered back. “I’ve seen them pull stuff up and take it to the kitchen. They cut it up, put it in pots, take it out again, and eat it.”

“Think it’s any good?”

Nero shrugged. “Probably.”

“We’ll take some back with us,” Weiss decided. This was not a treat they should keep to themselves. Rosso should know what green tasted like as well.

The woman pulling them had stopped and dropped to her knees in front of one of the raised boxes where she began to dig. Nero jumped, pulling Weiss into another shadow and out of the garden. Like the last woman, her stomach was invisible beneath her scrubs. Weiss and Nero trailed her through the beautiful maze of sea-green corridors.

“Do you see her?” Nero asked, glancing at the other women who wandered past.

“No.”

How they were going to find Jane among so many other women, Weiss honestly wasn’t sure. Perhaps it would have been smarter to try to search for her in the Breeding Program’s database? Although that probably would have made her easier to find, it would have raised too many questions and gotten all of them in trouble. He didn’t want Jane to be punished too.

Nero hopped from shadow to shadow while Weiss scrutinized faces. Some looked worried, others sad, a handful reasonably content, but most were distant and carefully blank. Despite the warm yellow light, their green food, and pretty doors, none of them looked happy.

“There!” It took an effort not to shout or point. Obligingly, Nero leaped to a different shadow, but Jane had already moved away. It wasn’t easy to follow her and Weiss lost sight of her as she went through a wide, arched doorway. Nero dragged them through and into the narrow shadow of the doorpost. Weiss blinked. The Mothers had a training simulator, too.

If he let his eyes relax, he could just make out the bent and wavy lines of light that made up the hologram. The benches and stones scattered around the large, vaulted room were real, as were a handful of statues, and a fountain in the middle. A couple of the plants were real as well: some flowering bushes, low blossoms that must be flowers, and -to his surprise- the short grass underfoot. The trees and larger plants were merely images. Squinting past the yellow lamplight, Weiss could just make out the projectors and the machines that generated the fine mist on which to display the images.

Nero shrank back even further from the light and the green. No one had come by, and shadows were scarce in this underground park. Although much of the cover was projected, it would be enough to hide them from view. Cautiously, he stepped out of the shadow, creating a larger patch of blackness for his brother to hide in. Silently, Weiss made his way along the wall, being careful to stay out of sight. At first glance he had thought the stone facade was part of the hologram, but the neatly stacked rock against his back and beneath his fingers was real. Very curious.

Almost all of the women present were heavily pregnant beneath their smocks. Most of them sat on the benches- alone or in a group- hands on their bellies and contemplative expressions on their faces. There was a small group of thinner women clustered around a bench near the fountain. Nearly every woman had a smile on her face. Curious, Weiss edged over to investigate.

At the center of the group was a woman seated on a bench. In her arms she cradled a bundle wrapped in a pale blue blanket. The other women were cooing and twittering over it. Craning his neck, Weiss tried to see what all the fuss was about, but he was too far away. Motioning to Nero, he fell forward, stretching his shadow until the edge just brushed that of a nearby statue. Nero caught him as he fell into the blackness, carrying them both from the statue, to the fountain, to the little arch of shade just behind the woman’s shoulder.

Wrapped in the blanket was the tiniest human Weiss had ever seen. Its head was smaller than his fist, and covered with fine, silky fuzz. Bright blue eyes- already glowing with makou- stared curiously out of its little face. It smiled toothlessly at one of the women and waved a minute pink fist at her. Weiss had known abstractly what a baby was, but had never seen one up close before. It could not have been any bigger or heavier than the five pound hand weights in the gym that no one ever used. Outside of its blue eyes, it was too young to have any distinguishing features. Weiss didn’t remember its mother, but couldn’t help wondering if it was his.

Jane was facing them, gently poking at the baby, a sad smile on her face.

“How old is he?” she asked. Weiss blinked. Although he had come here to talk to her, he had not expected to hear her speak.

“Ten days,” the baby’s Mother replied. “He’ll be mine for one whole year before they take him away and put me on the front lines.” Her words grew sad and heavy as she spoke, and she cuddled the baby close. “But he’s mine for now. He’s mine. All mine.”

Jane looked sad, and tears were welling up in several of the other womens’ eyes. This woman was one of the lucky ones. She had survived the birth of her baby and would live to take care of him and then be put in ranks as a JANE. This was supposed to be the best possible outcome for a Mother, but she didn’t seem very happy about it. None of them did.

Jane turned and wandered away from the Mother and her baby. Weiss felt the world lurch as Nero lunged for her shadow. They waited, following silently behind her as she walked. Either she was on the short side for a woman, or her trousers were too big. The cuffs had been rolled up so she would not trip on them. She’d pulled her brown hair back into a low ponytail that curled a little at the ends, and swayed against her shoulders as she walked. Weiss waited until she had wandered out of sight from the others before climbing out of her shadow.

She did not even stop short at the soft crunch of his boots on the grass. It was too easy to lock one arm around her waist, clap his other hand over her mouth, and lift her off the ground. She tried to scream, to wiggle away, but Weiss held her fast.

“Calm down,” he told her softly. “It’s Weiss.”

This did not seem to reassure her much, for while she stopped struggling, her body remained tensed.

“If I put you down, do you promise not to scream?”

She nodded, her heart beating rapidly against his ribs. Carefully, he set her down and took a step back.

“Oh my gods!” She gasped, putting a hand to her heart. “What are you _doing_ here? What do you _want?_ ”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Weiss said simply.

“You… _what?_ ” she echoed, bewildered.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Jane just stared at him open-mouthed. Something poked at his ankle and Weiss glanced down, noticing a pair of golden eyes hiding in the shadow beneath a stone bench.

“Apologize!” Nero hissed.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Weiss began rather awkwardly. “And...and for earlier. I know now that you weren’t there because you wanted to be. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

It took several minutes and a couple of false starts before Jane managed a reply.

“You couldn’t just call me?” she said at last, a decidedly sarcastic slant to her words. It was Weiss’ turn to look at her stupidly.

“Call you?” he asked. He had no PHS, nor did she. Neither one of them had any use for a phone. Communication between the Mothers and the rest of Deepground was strictly prohibited. If anyone caught him here, all of them would catch hell for it. Jane looked as if she could not decide if she ought to be amused or not.

“Well, usually the gentleman calls the lady after an evening together,” she said, a sardonic smile pulling at her lips. “And he buys her dinner first.”

Now Weiss was thoroughly lost. “Didn’t they let you eat? I thought Mothers got the best food?”

“You really _don’t_ have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Weiss shook his head. “Not really, no.”

“Oh man…” she groaned, sinking down on the bench. “They told me you were nice behind closed doors, but they didn’t say anything about this. Though I guess you wouldn’t need to date, not with us around.” She gestured broadly, the sweep of her hand taking in the entire park and the women within it. Weiss wasn’t sure what to say to that and settled somewhat awkwardly into parade rest, feet apart and hands clasped behind his back. He had a short list of things he had wanted to address with her, but was having trouble remembering what they were. Her remarks made no sense. In his effort to decipher her comment, he remembered what he’d wanted to say.

“Do you have a name?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “it’s--” Weiss cut her off.

“Please don’t. If I don’t know, I can’t tell the Restrictors. I don’t want to get you in trouble too. I just wanted to know.”

“O-kay…” Jane drawled, her confusing deepening by the minute.

“Do you mind if I keep calling you ‘Jane’?”

Jane shrugged. “Your house, your rules.”

Weiss took that as a ‘yes’ and moved on to the next item on his list: “Do you want to be a Mother?”

Jane blinked. “Well, I thought maybe someday I’d have kids, but not like this.”

“What did you want it to be like?”

“I… I thought I’d fall in love,” she stammered, “maybe get married. I never thought…” Swallowing hard, she looked away and crossed her arms over her chest as if she were cold. Weiss went over and sat down next to her, close enough to touch, but Jane shied away, almost falling off the bench in the process.

“Careful,” he told her, pulling her back from the edge as gently as he could. Although she didn’t try to move over, or get up to leave, she looked away. She shivered, and he rubbed her shoulder with one hand.

“Please don’t,” she said, voice small and strangled.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, taking his arm back. “I thought you were cold.”

She laughed a little at that, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Right. That’s what you said the last time.”

“Weren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, “but mostly I was scared.”

“Scared?” Weiss echoed. “Why?”

Jane stared at him as if his hair were on fire. For a long moment her eyes searched his face, her expression too complex to read. Although she could speak now, Jane was so much more difficult to follow than Rosso. It wasn’t just because he’d known Rosso longer, either. Rosso said what she thought, and meant what she said. It was almost impossible for him to tell what was going on inside Jane’s head.

“Not all the JOE’s sent in to us are nice,” Jane began softly, not looking up. “Mostly you just close your eyes and get it over with. None of us expect flowers and chocolates, but there are a couple of guys who don’t care if they break bones or draw blood. Everyone prays that they’ll get one of the sane ones, but only the luckiest get you.”

Now it was his turn to stare. “Me?” Weiss asked, tilting his head in confusion. “Why?”

“That’s what I said. When I first got here, I heard plenty of horror stories, but I also heard how you’re easily the nicest one. You at least try to be careful. I didn’t believe it until…” Trailing off, she shrugged.

“Azul always told me to be a gentleman,” he told her. “I wasn’t even sure what he meant by that until recently. He never liked the Breeding Program. He never went himself, but he didn’t try to stop me either. He just kept warning me to behave myself and telling me that if I didn’t go, someone else would. Someone rough.”

Jane nodded slowly, processing this. “So...is that why you went to so much trouble with me?”

“No, that was actually Rosso.” Weiss was powerless against the heat creeping into his face. “Maybe I wasn’t rough, but being a gentleman wasn’t enough. I wanted you to like it too.”

A moment ago she seemed to be following, but at the mention of Rosso, Jane’s perplexity deepened. “I don’t understand…”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he shrugged. “I’m really strong, it’s easy for me to cause pain and not realize it. I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen with you. I wanted you to enjoy it.”

Jane had yet to look up. For a long moment she contemplated her lap, the back of her neck flushed pink beneath her ponytail. “I...I did enjoy it…” she stammered. “I feel like I shouldn’t have. I didn’t want to be there. I was glad that if I was going to have to go through it, that I at least got someone who wasn’t going to leave me bleeding, but I didn’t expect…” She trailed off, her pink skin staining scarlet.

“Is that why you did that thing with your lips?”

She looked up at him sharply at that, surprise plain on her face. “Thing with my lips?”

“Yeah.” Leaning, he briefly touched his lips to hers as she had the last time they were in the same room together. “That.”

Too stunned to move, Jane sat there, blinking in disbelief. “...do you have some kind of weird crush on me?”

It was his turn to look dismayed. “I hope not! I didn’t think I touched you that hard. I don’t want to crush you.”

Jane was giving him the hair-on-fire look again. At first he thought she was choking, but a strangled smile had split her face, and he realized she was laughing. “Oh gods…” she groaned once she had managed to recover somewhat. “You’ve got a sense of humor.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Weiss insisted, confused. Again Jane studied him, taking his measure with only her eyes.

“You’re not messing with me?” she asked, tone serious. “You really don’t know what a kiss is? I can’t believe no one’s ever kissed you before. What about your mother?”

Weiss shrugged. “My Mother died when I was born. I never knew her. Rosso, Nero, and I grew up down here. We don’t know who our parents are. No one’s ever kissed us, or held us close with their arms. I don’t…” He shook his head. This was not what he’d come to talk to her about. On the point of changing the subject, he opened his mouth but closed it again as Jane laid her hand on his knee.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Weiss looked at her, feeling his brow crease in confusion.

“Why? I should be apologizing to you. I’m not the one who--”

“No one ever told you different,” she interrupted. “I shouldn’t have been your first kiss.”

For a long moment Weiss could not think of anything to say. He’d come here to apologize to her, to ask her something, but the conversation had taken so many twists and turns that he’d been unable to work any of it in. He didn’t understand her at all. Jane had every right to be angry with him, to be afraid of him. She shouldn’t have to suffer him or anyone else if she didn’t want to.

“Where do you come from?” he asked in attempt to get things back on track. 

Jane blinked at this. “Midgar,” she said. “Sector Seven. My family never had much. I guess Shinra thought no one would miss me.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Jane just stared at him. “Are you playing with me?” she breathed, eyes welling up. “Don’t offer me something like that. We both know there’s no way out of here. Even if I tried to escape, the microchip they put in me would explode as soon as I went outside the borders of Deepground.”

“No it won’t.” Getting to his feet, Weiss pulled her up as well. “Nero!”

The blackness of their joined shadows rippled and Nero’s head appeared. Jane shrieked, and Weiss hurriedly clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Jane, this is my brother Nero,” he told her evenly, waiting until her panicked breaths had slowed before removing his hand. Jane’s expression remained one of undisguised terror as Nero rose out of the puddle of darkness. Although he stood with hands crossed over his chest as if the long sleeves of his straight jacket were tied, without his rig he was long, black, and skinny as a sunset shadow himself.

“Hi,” he said, respirator crackling.

“H-hello,” Jane stammered.

“Nero, I need you to keep Jane safe.”

Nero nodded. “Okay.” Turning to Jane, he commented: “I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

“The Restrictors can’t track us when we’re in shadow,” Weiss confided. “Don’t tell anyone.”

The terror had melted from her face, and it looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to cry. With something like a laugh and a sob, she launched herself at Weiss, throwing her arms around his neck. Weiss started, stumbling back a step and arms spread awkwardly at his sides before the memory kicked into place and he clumsily put his arms around her in return.

“This is a hug,” she whispered into his neck. “It means ‘thank you’, and ‘I love you’, and happy things that you can’t put into words.” Stretching, she touched her lips to his cheek. “A kiss is like that, but more.” Cupping his face in both her hands, she pulled him down and pressed her lips to his. “On the lips, it’s _way_ more.” Stepping back, she let her hands slide down his arms and then took his hands in hers. “Thank you, Weiss.”

Weiss smiled back at her, feeling his cheeks warm, and tilted his head enough to briefly touch his lips to her cheek in return.

“Thank _you._ ”

\--

Once he’d visited a place, Nero could simply warp there and didn’t need to hop from shadow to shadow as he had earlier. It was Weiss’s turn to cringe when he realized where Nero had taken them.

“The dark makou caverns?” he asked. “Seriously?”

“What?” Nero demanded. “They’ll never find her here. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her food and stuff.”

Jane didn’t look exactly thrilled with the arrangement, but nodded. “It’s fine, really.”

“I’ll come and see you,” Weiss promised. He was rewarded with a smile and Jane telling him:

“I’d like that.”

He hated to leave her there, but Nero promised to bring her things- a flashlight, blankets, food, and so forth- and Jane insisted she didn’t mind. Weiss got the feeling she wasn’t being entirely honest about that, but he and Nero had been gone too long already. They stopped only briefly in the Mothers’ kitchen before heading back. Some colorful vegetables had been left on the counter, and Weiss scooped them into the shadows along with a small knife. When they reappeared in his room, Rosso was sitting on the bed, polishing her bow.

“Where have you two been?” she asked.

“Takeout,” Weiss told her with a grin, arms full of produce. Dumping them onto the bed, he picked up a round, red fruit.

“Try it,” Weiss urged, holding it out to her.

Rosso took it and examined it for a moment. Apples had always been imaginary things, a colored, cartoon line drawing vaguely remembered from childhood. This apple was indeed red, but streaked with yellow and dotted with little brown specks like freckles. The yellow condensed in one area as if someone had tried to paint a highlight on it with a brush. It smelled like the sun and sky, though, like them, it had never known either. Lifting it to her mouth, she took an awkward bite. Beneath the red skin, its flesh was white and crispy. It sheared off in a larger chunk than she intended, and she had a little trouble getting the whole thing in her mouth.

“Mph!” she exclaimed, using her other hand to catch a drip of juice that slid down her chin. “Oh my gods…”

“Is it good?” Weiss asked.

Rosso nodded, taking her time chewing, apparently reluctant to swallow.

“Try it!” she insisted, pressing the bitten apple into his hands. Nero looked at it longingly. Before taking a bite himself, Weiss fished the paring knife he’d stolen from the Mothers’ kitchen and cut a slice for his brother. He waited until Nero had slipped the piece of fruit behind his mask and into his mouth.

The taste, the texture, everything about it was so alien that it took Weiss a moment to sort it all out. Before all else it was _sweet_ , but tart as well. Although the flesh was crunchy, it was surprisingly wet, his teeth crushing more and more juice out of it.

“Mmmm…” Nero’s respirator made a harmonica-like chord out of his contented sigh. “Oh man…”

“I know, right?” Rosso agreed, taking the apple back for a second bite. “This is amazing!”

They passed it around until all that remained were six small brown seeds lying in Weiss’s palm. Carrots, it turned out, were bright orange and stiletto-shaped when not cut up, and Weiss and Nero dueled with them before tasting them. They weren’t as sweet as the apple, but were delicious in a different way. The long shoots of celery with their crown of frilly green leaves were also good, and just as wet as the apple, though Nero found them stringy. The seemingly endless supply of ruffled leaves on the head of lettuce confounded them for a moment. Tearing them off one by one, they passed it around as they had the apple, Nero rolling the leaves up like cigarettes before tucking them behind his mask.

“Chow’s gonna be a disappointment after this,” he remarked.

“It’d almost be worth being a Mother to eat like this all the time,” Rosso said, toying with the lettuce’s woody heart- the only thing they hadn’t managed to consume.

Weiss looked at her, the remark sounding strange on her lips. Rosso wasn’t and never would be a Mother but he’d expected her to have a bit more sympathy for the other females. Then again, Rosso had never been treated like a female. Rosso was a JANE, a woman in shape but not in function. She was a soldier first and foremost, the difference of anatomy little more than a superfluous detail.

The JANE he’d defended came to mind, and the taste of the garden food turned to ash in his mouth. He had always asked Rosso because he liked her, because she was as good as family, because he wanted to hear her say ‘yes’ no matter how bored her tone. No one had asked the JANE, or the woman he called ‘Jane’, not even him. The JOE had known the JANE would yield no children yet he’d forced himself on her anyway. That had nearly happened several times to Rosso. Everyone knew better than to cross her now, but looking back, he couldn’t help feeling angry that she’d been assaulted at all. No one should be assaulting any of the JANEs. Hell, no one should be assaulting anyone _at all_.

Scooting closer, Weiss leaned against Rosso a little. Reflexively, she leaned against him in return. Weiss rubbed his cheek against her hair and rested his chin on her head.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, amused.

“I’m glad you’re not a Mother,” he told her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Smiling, she rubbed her cheek against his. “Me too.”


	51. Deep Down Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sephiroth does a bit of research, goes on a long walk, and acquires some kids.

The electronic screech triggered a jolt of adrenaline so intense it felt like an electrical shock from a live wire. Sephiroth started awake, inhaling sharply and flailing amid the bedclothes before he realized the noise was from his PHS and that he was not actually under attack. Breathing heavily, he fumbled for the phone as it vibrated across the night stand, ringtone blaring loud enough in the empty ward to wake the dead. Finally grabbing the blasted thing, he squinted at the too-bright screen, eyes going wide as he recognized the number. Hastily, he flipped the phone open.

“Lazard?” he asked, half afraid someone else would answer.

“Sephiroth?” his old commander’s voice asked and Sephiroth sagged against the headboard in relief.

“It’s me, Sir,” Sephiroth replied, painfully glad to hear the SOLDIER Director’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Lazard told him. “A lot’s happened since you left, but I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

Even if that only meant that no one was seriously injured and they were all in prison somewhere, Sephiroth was alright with that. So long as everyone was safe and in one piece, the rest was just details.

“Good,” Sephiroth responded, his heartbeat beginning to slow to a normal rate again. In the next cot, Genesis had propped himself up on one elbow and was blinking sleepily in the darkness.

“Who is it?” he mumbled.

“Where are you?” Sephiroth asked, ignoring Genesis for the moment. “What’s going on?”

“I got your messages. Why do you want to know about my prosthetic?”

“What’s the power source? Is it a single, whole materia, or just a shard in a customized fitting?”

“A shard…” Lazard replied, sounding lost. “Why?”

“Short version: we have half a summon materia and we need the other two pieces before it will work. You have one. May I have it? I’ll replace it.”

“Sure,” Lazard agreed, deciding to ask for details later. “Anything I can do to help.”

“Now what about you?”

“I’m not at Shinra anymore. I was given a choice of either being reassigned to Deepground, or taking early retirement. I chose the latter.”

It took Sephiroth a moment before he found his voice again. “Deepground?”

“Fin’s staffed the whole Shinra building with them. Everything that used to be guarded by SOLDIERs is now protected by Deepground troops. No one’s happy about it except maybe the troops themselves. Something tells me they don’t get out much.”

“Who’s still there?”

“The board. Scarlet, Palmer, Heidigger, Reeve, and Hojo. Heidigger pitched a holy fit, but got the same ultimatum that I did. To my knowledge, no one else has said anything, but that doesn’t mean they like it. Rumor is that they might all be replaced if they don’t resign first. Personally, I think the only reason most of them are hanging around is because of you.”

They wanted to provide him with eyes and ears on the inside. It would be invaluable information to have, if only the board members could get the information to him. Unless of course, he brought the battle to Shinra… However, he couldn’t do anything until Elfe was back on her feet, which brought him back around to the beginning.

“I suppose it’s a bit late to ask if the line is secure,” Sephiroth mused. “Where are you?”

“Secure enough. I haven’t been out of the game so long that I can’t spot and disable a wire tap.”

That made Sephiroth smile.

“We’re at home,” Lazard went on. “So long as I keep my mouth shut, they _shouldn’t_ have any reason to try to shut it for me.”

“I need a way into Midgar. Is anything not on lockdown?”

Lazard snorted. “No, every entry point is sealed tight. You’re the most wanted man in the city besides that demon in red they were looking for a couple of months ago.”

“The demon’s gone,” Sephiroth said quietly. “I killed him myself.”

“Well, that’s one down,” Lazard said philosophically. “I’ll see what I can do, but unless you can fly, there’s no way in.”

Sephiroth cast a resentful glance at his half-furled wing. Why had he only gotten one? What good was just _one_ wing?

“I’ll figure something out,” Sephiroth vowed. “In the meantime, stay safe. Don’t do anything foolish.”

“You too, kid.”

The ward suddenly seemed extra-dark now that the green light of the PHS screen had gone out. 

“So what are you going to do?” Genesis asked into the darkness. “Walk to Midgar?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “If I have to.”

“Shrina will have an entire legion of Deepground mutants waiting for you at every gate.”

“This is my responsibility,” Sephiroth insisted. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You _like_ her…” Genesis pronounced this as if he’d solved one of the deep mysteries of the cosmos.

“No, I don’t,” Sephiroth replied automatically.

“You do too,” Genesis insisted, “or you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.”

“She and Zirconiade are the best shot we have at beating Jenova.”

“Oh please,” Genesis said, golden eyes rolling. “You could not be acting the Heroic Paladin more if you were on stage in gilded plate mail.”

“You’re delirious,” Sephiroth told him straight-faced. “I’m going to tell Shalua to adjust your medication.”

Genesis ignored him. “Crossing oceans to fetch the magic talisman that will save the life of the Maiden Fair? You wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”

“Elfe would probably stab you if you said that to her face.”

“You’re using her first name,” Genesis went on. “Why not ‘Verdot’? And don’t tell me it’s to tell her apart from her old man.”

Although Sephiroth was glad Genesis was alive to annoy him, his patience was wearing thin. “Because she asked me to call her that,” he said somewhat testily. “I’m just doing what I need to in order to solve all this. This isn’t a battle I can fight myself, so I’ve got to make sure the one person who can stays alive.”

The younger man fell silent at that. Sephiroth set the phone back on the bedside table and resettled on the mattress. He had only managed to fall asleep earlier due to sheer exhaustion. Knowing Lazard was safe and that at least one of the Zircon shards was accounted for did much to ease his mind. Off to his left, Genesis shifted as well, the springs of the old metal cot creaking softly.

“You realize if she does kill Jenova, she’ll have to kill us too. We were both born carrying Jenova’s DNA. As long as we live, so does Jenova.”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Turning on his side, he looked over, locking eyes with his friend.

“I’ve been dying for months now,” Genesis said quietly. “I’ve had time to think about this. I’m only twenty-four. I’m not ready to die, but I’m going to whether I like or not. I don’t mind so much if my death means other people will be safe, but I don’t want to lie here and waste away. I want to help. I want to do something. When I die, I want to do so with my sword in my hand.”

Sephiroth wanted desperately to argue with him, to promise Genesis he wasn’t going to die, but he couldn’t refute the truth. Genesis was right. Defeating Jenova more than likely meant that both of them would have to die as well. Anyone carrying the alien parasite’s DNA was a risk to themselves and everyone around them.

“Is it worth it to wait until after the fighting’s over?” Genesis wanted to know. “Why is it always after the war that people want to do things? Why do they put it off? Don’t they know that tomorrow things could change? That one or both of them could be dead by then?”

“Gen…” Reaching across the gap between their beds, Sephiroth grasped Genesis’ good hand. The younger man did not smile, but squeezed his hand a little.

“Seph, if you have anything at all to say to her, say it now. Don’t wait. Tell her how you feel while you still can.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” he confessed.

“Then tell her that. Maybe she can help you figure it out.”

 

\--

 

It was like the Shinra board meetings, but on a much smaller scale. The Corel City Hall’s council room was perhaps half the size of the Shinra board room. Sephiroth did not miss the enormous table or the plush armchairs arranged neatly around it. For one, he was certain he never could have managed a chair like that with the wing on his shoulder getting in the way at every twist and turn. Instead, the little wooden chairs clustered around one end of the polished table were like grown-up versions of the kind of seating commonly found behind school desks: inconvenient for anything but sitting bolt upright. Between his new wing and still stiff neck, this suited Sephiroth just fine.

Genesis, by contrast, looked as if he would not have minded a nice soft chair to sink into. Despite a fresh blood transfusion- they had weighed the risks and decided it was more important that the younger man not decline any further- he looked only marginally better than the woman on the laptop screen. Elfe was not one to fuss over her appearance; she wore her hair boy short and didn’t bother with makeup. However, it was evident someone had made an attempt to mask the circles under her eyes and the pallor of her complexion. The face powder was half a shade too dark and contrasted strangely with the fair skin of her throat. There was no concealing the tightness around her eyes, or the effort it was requiring just for her to hold her head up. She was tired and in pain, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

Elena was still fiddling with the video connection, and it took her a moment before she managed to eliminate the wavy, horizontal bars of static cutting through the picture. Veld peered curiously at the camera, nudging it a bit from his end and making the picture jump.

“Don’t touch it!” Elena snapped, and the old Turk sat down again. Elfe, swathed in her white cloak- the sleeve of her hospital smock carefully concealed- tried to push herself up a bit straighter with her good arm.

“Can you see us?” she asked.

“We can see and hear you just fine,” President Rufus assured her. “How are you feeling, Commander?”

“Fine, Sir,” she said automatically. Veld gave her a dubious look, but said nothing. “General,” she went on, looking at Sephiroth, “did you uncover anything helpful?”

He had discovered plenty, but whether or not it was helpful, he had no idea. “I do have some good news. Director Lazard does indeed have a fragment of the Zircon materia and is happy to give it to you. I also have a lead as to where the fourth piece might be. However, Lazard has been removed from his position as Director of SOLDIER. He informed me that SOLDIER has been disbanded and that the Shinra building and other facilities are now being patrolled by Deepground troops.”

The following silence was thunderous. Sephiroth gave them a few minutes to absorb what he’d just said.

“Deepground…” Veld echoed. What he said next was too low to make out, but Elfe’s raised eyebrows said enough.

“That figures,” Azul grumbled. The big man had wedged himself into the room and was seated on the floor behind everyone else. He was still more than tall enough to see over everyone’s heads. “Deepground’s all Shinra’s got left. Also, we’re all controlled by microchips. Ain’t nobody gonna step outta line.”

Sephiroth nodded carefully. “President Shinra prefers troops he can control. He won’t bother with traditional SOLDIERs anymore. If SOLDIER has been disbanded, that means he sees us as unpredictable and a liability. He’d rather eliminate us than try to negotiate.”

“He’s gonna send the kids after you sooner rather than later,” Azul agreed. “You gotta stop him before he does.”

“We need Commander Verdot in one piece before we do anything else.”

“Not disagreein’,” Azul told him. “Just playin’ the long game.”

“Understood.” Azul was right. Shinra would have had to staff the building with _someone_ , and who better than troops who would be loyal whether they liked it or not? Sephiroth rather fervently hoped Lazard and the rest of the board were alright. He didn’t want to be indirectly responsible for yet more suffering.

“Thoughts, Sir?” Zack asked, watching the wheels turn in his commander’s head.

“We need to go back,” Sephiroth decided. “Not all of us, not right now, just a strike force to retrieve the materia shard and to find out personally what’s going on.

“Genesis and I are the only ones in ranks who still carry any Jenova,” Sephiroth continued, reasoning aloud. “I’m the greater threat.”

“Hey, give me some credit,” Genesis whined and Sephiroth forced back a smile with some effort.

“Neither one of us is fit for command, which is why Fair is running things.”

“Nominally,” Zack put in.

Sephiroth ignored him. “I don’t need to be here.”

Everyone looked at him.

“I don’t,” Sephiroth insisted. “I’m more of a liability than an asset at this point. I’ll take a small team into Midgar to retrieve the Zircon shard.”

“Sir,” Tseng began somewhat awkwardly, “you have the most recognizable face on the planet. Everyone in Midgar is looking for you, particularly those in league with Shinra.”

“Don’t you think I can do it?” Sephiroth kept his voice polite, but the words still came out a challenge. Tseng offered a brief bow in apology.

“I only meant, Sir, that you will be taking an enormous risk.”

“Who else could do it?” The question was largely rhetorical and they all knew it. “I need Fair and the other CO’s to stay here and make sure Corel is protected and that nothing else happens. Colonel Rhapsodos is injured, and Commander Verdot is the reason I’m staging this mission.”

No one else looked eager to argue, so he went on.

“Azul, you mentioned microchips. What can you tell me about them?”

The big man shrugged. “They’re implanted at the base of your skull as soon as you’re press-ganged. If you try to raise a hand against a Restrictor, it releases an electrical pulse and shocks you till you can’t move. If you cross the boundaries without clearance, the chip’ll explode like a firecracker, killing you instantly. The Restrictors run everything down there; only they can turn ‘em on and off. I dunno how you’d shut the damn things off, but you’d have to get past all four of those flesh robots before you could do anything.”

“So the computer terminal that regulates the microchips is in Deepground itself?”

Azul nodded. “That’d be my guess. I ain’t much on technology.”

A reconnaissance mission to fetch pieces of materia was one thing, infiltrating the warren that was Deepground was quite another. Unfortunately, Azul and his family would have to wait. Adding it to his mental ‘to do’ list, he looked up as Elfe spoke:

“Do you have a team in mind?”

“Yes.” Twisting awkwardly in his seat, Sephiroth addressed the director of the Turks. “Tseng, I’d like to borrow a couple of your people, if I may? This is a job that requires stealth, not brute force. Turks are less likely to stand out than SOLDIERs.”

“We have a cell in Midgar,” Elfe added, not batting an eyelash. “There’s a bar in Sector Seven that serves as their base of operations. I’ll send word to them. They’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth told her, taking the news of a sleeper cell inside Midgar in stride. The presence of Avalanche vigilantes in the city would certainly explain a few things.

“The Turks are at your service, of course,” Tseng agreed, “but how are you going to get there? Shinra’s likely to have every entrance point blocked.”

Turning, Sephiroth looked back at Azul. “How did you get here?”

The big man grinned. “We walked.”

 

\--

 

“I dunno what’s creepier,” Reno remarked. “The fact that all this is down here, or that we never knew about it.”

“Both,” Sephiroth replied, eyeing the sea-green walls with some distrust. The rock of the cavern was coated in at least an inch of materia like a brittle shell of hard candy.

“Dunno that this even existed that long ago,” Azul observed. “Started using these a couple of years back. Shinra’s been reroutin’ the mako reactors for the last five years or so. Ain’t none of the reactors drawin’ makou from the same source they did fifty years ago.”

“This is an aquifer,” Sephiroth said, the lightbulb clicking on. “An aquifer for makou, but it’s been sucked dry.”

The big man nodded. “Avalanche ain’t wrong. Reactors are suckin’ this planet dry, and they won’t be able to for too much longer. There’s a finite supply of this stuff. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

It might take a while, but down in this empty artery of the earth, Sephiroth could see the argument through Elfe’s eyes all too clearly. As people, animals, and plant life perished, the spirit would be sucked up by the reactors until life on Gaia did indeed cease to exist. With any luck, they’d be able to resolve the whole mess- Jenova, makou reactors, Deepground, everything- before too much more time had passed. If they didn’t, well, it wouldn’t matter much in a few years, would it?

Glancing back over his shoulder, Sephiroth checked his pace yet again. The only person taller than him in the group was Azul, and he’d been following at the larger man’s elbow the entire time. Sephiroth’s natural stride was half again as long as that of most men, and urgency was driving him to walk faster and faster. However, that meant they were leaving the Turks in the dust. Reno and Rude were trotting to keep up, but Elena had been at a steady jog just to keep pace. At present, she was trailing her fellow Turks at some distance. Raising a hand to call a halt, Sephiroth stood by Azul and waited for the others to catch up.

Although Rude was only shorter than Sephiroth by a handwidth, he was panting a bit from having been at a near-run for over an hour.

“Geeze, boss,” Reno huffed, leaning both his hands on his knees. “Take it easy. The rest of us ain’t souped-up on makou.”

He was used to traveling with SOLDIERs who were more than capable of keeping up with him. Accompanying the militia from the Corel Prison had been a very different operation with a much less serious time constraint. Deepground would not wait much longer before sending another one of Azul’s children along with a couple thousand troops in the direction of Corel. He fervently hoped they would not run into each other down here. Azul had said it had taken his own troops a little over forty-eight hours jogging with only a few breaks in between. However, they were traveling with three standard-issue humans who could not hope to keep up that sort of pace. Even at the rate they were all going now, it would take over four days, perhaps more, just to reach the shore of the Eastern Continent.

“Let’s take a break,” Sephiroth announced. The Turks dropped to sit on the ground almost in perfect unison. All three of them were tired and hungry. It wasn’t fair to expect them to keep up with two unusually tall SOLDIERs.

“How far would you say we’ve come?” he asked Azul. 

The giant’s brow furrowed in thought.

“Well, we spent a good couple hours in the coal mines. Didn’t really count that as part of the trip. Still, we’ve made decent time. Maybe a third of the way, give or take? Don’t see no markers yet.”

A third of the way was more than Sephiroth had hoped for. It still left an absurdly long distance to cover in very little time, but it could be done. Once in Midgar, they might be able to take a brief rest, or he could leave the Turks to rest on their own while he visited Lazard.

While the Turks and Azul broke into the rations, Sephiroth paced, trying to calculate, to devise a way in which to speed things up. He’d been horribly spoiled by having so many SOLDIERs at his beck and call. Being forced to be patient and to plan for comparatively weaker subordinates was a challenge he hadn’t had to meet for a long time.

“Think you can go a little further?” he asked once they had finished eating. Reno and Rude exchanged a look and a shrug.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” Reno replied, apparently speaking for the group. Elena, however, looked less than thrilled with the idea. Reluctantly, she got to her feet, legs trembling from exhaustion. On the verge of changing his mind and telling them all to get some sleep, Sephiroth shut his mouth as Azul stooped and scooped up Elena in his arms.

“You ride with me, Little Sister,” he told her, tucking her into the crook of one elbow. “Ain’t fair to make a lady stretch her legs so far.”

Elena seemed to be on the point of arguing that she could keep up, but then thought better of it. Smiling to himself, Sephiroth motioned for Azul to lead on. Hopefully they could make a few more miles without wearing themselves out too badly.

 

\--

 

“Scarlett!” Reeve stumbled to her side as fast as his mismatched feet would let him. She lifted her head as he put his arms around her and he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized she wasn’t hurt. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

Even a former Turk rarely drank more than half a bottle at a time. Scarlett’s crystal decanter, however, was nearly empty. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. Sniffing, Scarlett pulled a tissue from the box and tried to wipe the mascara streaks from her face.

“They’re just kids, Reeve. Babies. They were my responsibility and I never even knew it.”

Reeve, thoroughly lost, petted her back as she hid her face in his shoulder. Scarlett never cried, she had a Turk’s iron resolve and stony reserve, but she had a tender heart beneath the armor. If something had upset her enough to reach for the whiskey and break down in tears, it couldn’t be good.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, bewildered. Scarlett took a moment to collect herself, her professional mask sliding into place despite the salt on her cheeks.

“Look,” she said, keying a command into her computer. An old-style green screen database flickered into view. It took Reeve a moment to recognize it as a list of statistics, except he did not know any of the names.

“What is all this?”

“SOLDIER statistics,” Scarlet replied, voice hollow. “Deepground wasn’t disbanded, it was buried. They hid these kids in the Weapons’ database and I never caught it. I never even thought to look. You’d think I’d have noticed the update log.”

“Nobody ever reads those,” Reeve assured her, making a mental note to start looking over his own logs from now on.

“I was a Turk for fifteen years, I _should_ have looked. It was my gods-damned _job_ to look! If I had, I might have noticed that digital archives of stuff from twenty years ago are still being updated almost daily!”

Knowing nothing he could say would help, Reeve rubbed her shoulders and tried to be comforting. He blinked as the screen refreshed, the numbers jumping and reappearing in a different order. The name that had been at the top of the screen was now halfway down, the words “disciplinary action” listed next to it. That couldn’t be good.

“What can we do?” he asked.

Scarlett did not answer right away, but watched the screen as the numbers scrolled down like drops of rain on a window. This was not the first time Shinra had tried to raise children to be more than adults, more than men with swords in their hands. She thought of Sephiroth, Angeal- Gods rest his soul-, Genesis, and the three little boys still living in captivity on the 67th floor.

The handful of remaining army personnel had been integrated with fresh troops that had been imported from seemingly nowhere. Deepground had been a defunct care unit when she was a Turk. Over the years, it had morphed into an urban legend. She had never imagined that any part of the rumors might be true. If Fin was going to replace SOLDIER with Deepground, then it was only a matter of time before the last three subjects of the Jenova Project were admitted to their ranks.

That, Scarlett vowed, was _not_ going to happen.

Hojo might run the Science Department, but with a large portion of his research shuttered overnight, his ability to protect his precious specimens would be limited. Unless, of course, there was nothing there to protect. Reaching, Scarlett lifted the receiver of her desk phone and dialed.

“Hello!” Palmer’s cheerful greeting crackled down the line.

“Hey, Palmer, it’s Scarlett. I was wondering if you could come up and help me out with some computer issues? My console’s acting up.”

“Fie upon cheap office equipment,” he agreed. “Tech support was no help?”

“Nah, this is beyond them.”

“Say no more, I’ll be right up!”

Reeve looked at her curiously as she hung up.

“Was that...code?” he asked. Scarlett leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“Yep. I could take this piece of crap apart and put it back together myself. I have, actually. I don’t need him to trouble shoot, I need a co-conspirator to hack into the science department’s database.”

“What for?”

“Reeve, dear, have you ever thought about having kids?”

 

\--

 

As Lazard had said, every point of entry was blocked. Except no one, it seemed, had thought of the sewers and subway tunnels at points of entry. Because of his microchip, Azul had elected to stand sentry and wait for them beneath the edge of the city walls. That left Sephiroth and the three Turks to sneak into the city. The first order of business was to find the Avalanche cell in Sector Seven. Elfe had promised to send word briefing them on the situation.

“You sure we can trust Avalanche?” Reno asked. “What makes you think they’ll trust us?”

“I trust Elfe,” Sephiroth replied. “She has no reason to double-cross us. Not now.” Not when her life hung in the balance. It was a mercenary reason, and the most obvious, but not the only one. Elfe believed in honor and the sacredness of giving one’s word. Avalanche might well be wary of the Great Sephiroth and a couple of Turks, but Sephiroth was prepared to trust them.

A curfew seemed to be in place throughout the slums. This was just as well. Although no one in Sephiroth’s recon team was in uniform, their presence on a street that was supposed to be empty would no doubt draw all sorts of unwanted attention. Even with his hair tied back and hidden under the hood of Angeal’s old Keepers of Honor sweatshirt, Masamune strapped to his back was a dead giveaway, as was the long leather jacket concealing his wing.

The streets were being loosely guarded not by troops, but by the half-sentient, four-legged soldiers. It wasn’t easy to avoid them, and twice they had to either kill the beasts or make a run for it. There was a risk that those in charge of Deepground would notice when the creatures suddenly keeled over and died.

“The hell do we get past these things?” Reno asked after slaughtering the fifth mongrel in a row. “Someone’s gonna notice us.”

Sephiroth eyed the rickety houses and the piles of garbage heaped on either side of the street, the two so alike that it was sometimes hard to tell one from the other. The thought of his last visit to the slums rose to the surface; his duel with Vincent and his unconventional route back to Veld’s apartment.

“If we can’t go through the slums, then we’ll go over.”

Climbing over rooftops had seemed easier when he’d been following Vincent. It was more difficult than it looked to extrapolate a safe path across structures that were only marginally sound. It was just as well Azul had had to stay behind, he could never have followed their precipitous trail across ridgepoles and rainspouts. However, their efforts proved pointless.

“Aw, man!” Reon whined, looking at the smoldering pile of charcoal and corrugated iron that had once been a bar. Even Rude’s habitual silence seemed defeated.

“Now what?” Elena asked.

“We press on,” Sephiroth replied. Without Avalanche’s help, they were on their own, and there was no other course to take. “We’re going to see Lazard.”

The former SOLDIER director lived in one of the humbler developments above plate. It wasn’t a posh neighborhood by any stretch. The apartment buildings were located near the railway station and were plagued by noise, light, and constant traffic. In all honesty, it wasn’t much different from the homes immediately below plate. Both had their drawbacks, but because of that, they were within the means of some of the mid-range managerial Shinra employees.

Bipedal soldiers patrolled the streets in pairs. The trains were not running despite the hour. It would mean Sephiroth and the Turks could not get lost in a crowd of commuters, but it also meant that the empty tracks would be safe to walk on. Below plate they had had to take the high road, now the low road was their best option. Downtown Midgar was its own maze of neon and concrete, and Sephiroth knew it better than he did the labyrinth of the slums. It did not take them long to reach Lazard’s building, nor to scale the fire escape and tap on his window. His bewildered spouse, George, nearly fell out of his chair in surprise.

“Sephiroth!” he gasped, shoving the sash up and picking at the levers to remove the screen. “What in hells are you doing up here? You know there’s a warrants out for your arrest with a 50,000 gil reward?”

Sephiroth helped him pop the screen off and maneuver it through the open window. “Fifty-thousand? I’m insulted. Even without the labor it took to build me, I’m worth far more than that.”

Hastily, he climbed inside, followed closely by the Turks. George slammed and locked the window behind them. “This about the materia?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth nodded. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’m afraid it’s important.”

“I’m sorry, Deuce isn’t here,” George apologized, using an abbreviated form of his husband’s first name. “He went below plate before curfew to speak with the Shinra board.”

Sephiroth blinked. The only board members who still lived below plate were the Professor and…

“He’s at Palmer’s.”

George nodded. “Yeah. He won’t be back till tomorrow at the earliest.”

“I’m afraid we can’t wait. I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Sephiroth apologized.

“Nice to see you,” George told them by way of a farewell. “You kids be careful out there.”

Sephiroth smiled for him as he ducked back out the window. “You too.”

 

\--

 

This was not the first time Scarlett had taken work home with her. However, said work was usually in the form of papers, or files, or bits and pieces of a stubborn prototype. Most recently, it had been the head of Urban Development that she brought home of an evening. This, however, was probably less forgivable than breaching the company’s inter-office fraternization policy (not that anyone ever paid attention to that anyway). But she’d be damned if she was going to watch these kids get thrown to the wolves.

She remembered Sephiroth when he was younger. She had been wearing Turk blue when he was born, and had transferred to Weapons Development the same year hostilities had broken out in Wutai and he’d been shipped off to war. Although she was not part of the Science Department, she’d spent enough time on the 67th floor standing guard duty that she couldn’t help feeling a sense of maternal responsibility toward the kid. With twenty years on him, she was old enough to be his mother, and the image of Sephiroth in her head was still that of a twelve-year-old who looked more like fifteen, a little boy excited to have a gun in his hands and stupidly proud of his new infantry uniform.

She didn’t venture up to the 67th floor as often now that she had her own division to run, but she still saw the little silver-haired specimens from time to time. The oldest one was already making appearances in the training simulator. Another year and he’d be added to the ranks of the new recruits in the infantry, or he would have if Fin hadn’t decided that letting the psychos out of the basement was the answer to the whole damn army walking out on him. Which was why she had to get him and the younger two out of here _now_.

About the time she was sliding the hacked keycard through the lock of Yorozuya’s door, it occurred to her that Hojo might actually be in favor of moving the kids somewhere safe. She could have asked. He might well have said yes. Still, so many years as a Turk had taught her it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission- or better still, not to get caught in the first place. Either way, it was too late now.

“Auntie Scarlett?” The boy had been engaged in a textbook so thick that it would have made other eleven-year-olds burst into tears.

“Put your shoes on, sweetie,” she said, holding out her hand. “We’re going out.”

“Where?” he asked, hastily pulling on a pair of sneakers that were nowhere near dirty enough to belong to a fourth grade boy. “To the training simulator?” Swinging a wooden sword at holograms was still new enough to be a novelty, and his face lit up with anticipation. Scarlet forced a smile for him.

“Sure. I want to show you and your brothers something.”

“What?” he wanted to know, finally knotting the laces.

“You’ll see,” she said, ushering him out the door and down the hall. It was like herding cats trying to keep him and Yasuragi from wandering off or running ahead. How she was going to get all three of them down the stairs and out the door even _with_ Avalanche setting everything within a six block radius on fire- there were only three of them, but Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie could do the sort of damage that normally required a small army- she had no idea.

“Scarlett?”

She froze in the act of pulling Katagi out the door. Hojo stood within ten paces, a bemused expression on his face.

“I was not apprised of your visit.”

Internally blessing Bahamut for Turk reflexes, she leaned back on one foot and rolled her eyes. “As if you ever bother to read any of the memos I send you.”

“No, that’s what I keep Irena around for.”

Scarlet shook her head. “I’ve developed a program on the simulator for the younger boys. I’m taking them down to run a few trials.”

Hojo nodded and lifted his clipboard, squinting at the pages on it. “Very well. Mind you look after them.”

“I will,” she promised with more gravity than he’d ever realize, and hustled the children down the hall.

 

\--

 

“Oh good, you made it!” Palmer greeted him cheerfully when Sephiroth knocked on his door. The rotund astronomer was all smiles as he led them through the kitchen and down the stairs to the lower level of his home. Sephiroth stopped short halfway down. He had been to war. He had gone toe-to-toe with a Force of Nature twice, yet this still made him stop and blink. Either this was some sort of bizarre Live-Action Role Play Game gone wrong, or Avalanche and the Shinra board were hiding out in Palmer’s basement. He was bewildered enough that Elena had to poke him gently in the shoulder to get him to go down the remaining stairs to the basement floor. It was only then that he noticed the three children trying to play with every toy in Palmer’s basement all at once.

“Boys!” Scarlett called, clapping her hands like a school teacher. The effect was the same. The children dropped what they were doing and lined up at attention in front of her.

“At ease,” she told them, smiling. “Boys, you know who Sephiroth is. Go say hello.”

It was surreal looking at the three of them in person. They had grown since the photographs had been taken. Yorozuya looked more like thirteen or fourteen despite being only eleven. He was still mostly child, but had the long rangey, body of a boy shooting up toward his adult height. Yasuragi had had his hair cut, but his bangs were already beginning to fall into his eyes again. Little Katagi just stood there and stared at him with large green eyes. More than ever, Sephiroth wished he could have brought Zack with him. He never knew what to say to people at the best of times. He had no experience with children, unless you counted Angeal and Genesis, and they’d all been of an age; children themselves. It wasn’t quite the same thing. What did one say to three children to whom one was related, but had never met before?

Yorozuya gave him an over-precise salute, the younger two mimicking him half a beat later. Automatically, Sephiroth returned it.

“Auntie Scarlett says you’re our big brother,” Katagi spoke up. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth answered. Without waiting for further explanation, Katagi stepped forward and threw his arms around Sephiroth’s legs, hugging him tightly.

Sephiroth stumbled where he stood to compensate for the sudden forty pounds or so of small human now attached firmly to his leg. Unthinking, his hand drifted down to rest on the boy’s head. Even through his gloves he could tell the silver hair was fine and soft and perfectly smooth. Yorozuya and Yasuragi hesitated a moment before following suit. Katagi was small yet, his head reaching only slightly higher than Sephiroth’s waist. Yasuragi was also still just shy of five foot, and reached somewhere between Sephiroth’s elbow and shoulder. Yorozuya, however, was nearly chest-high and he hid his face in the worn-soft fabric of his elder brother’s sweatshirt. The gestures were awkward and unpracticed for all of them, born more of instinct than of family etiquette. These boys had no parents either; Lucrecia had been dead years before any of them had been conceived, and the Professor hardly counted. All they had was each other and himself. Sephiroth felt his arms curl around the little bodies clinging to him, pulling them closer.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he told them. Looking down at faces that were like his and yet not, the thought of being separated from them suddenly seemed unbearable. He’d known them less than five minutes and yet did not want to leave them behind. The thing he’d always wanted most was looking up at him expectantly, but he still had work to do. Until Jenova was gone, his brothers, his _family_ , would never be safe. He let his arms fall to his sides and the boys stepped back.

“Dismissed,” he told them kindly. “Go and play. I… I have work to do. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

The younger two returned to the toys readily enough, but Yorozuya looked up at him skeptically.

“You mean it?” he asked.

Sephiroth did not blame him. It had not taken him very long to learn to distrust the word of adults when he was that age. “I mean it,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. Yorozuya looked at him narrowly, then stuck out one skinny hand. Sephiroth grasped it and shook, sealing their informal bargain. Only eleven and already behaving with all the seriousness of an adult. It wasn’t easy to hold back a smile. He did not want to the boy to think he was laughing at him. With the greatest reluctance, he turned around to face the other adults in the room. He had all but forgotten they were there.

Everyone was here: Scarlett, Reeve, Lazard, even Heidigger, and three soot-covered people he assumed to be the Avalanche members. Far from casting suspicious glances in his direction, they grinned widely and waved. Bemused, Sephiroth waved back. Next to them, Lazard struggled to escape the deep cushions Palmer’s well-worn sofa and limped over.

“Here,” he said, pressing an object into Sephiroth’s hands. “Take it and welcome. I hope it helps.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth told him sincerely. “All of you. I just need to ask you one more favor- well, two.”

“Name it, honey,” Scarlett told him. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it.”

“I need you to get my brothers out of Midgar.”

“Done!” Palmer declared. “I already have a plan.”

“Good,” Sephiroth nodded. That was one less thing for him to sort out himself. “I need to get into the Shinra building undetected.”

All of them looked at him, then at each other, and back at him again.

“Have you lost your damn mind, boy?” Heidigger growled. “The place is crawling with Deepground monsters. Everyone in the city is looking for you! You’re to be shot on sight!”

Sephiroth smirked. “They haven’t found me yet, and I dare them to hit me.”

Heidigger harrumphed and Scarlett bit her lip, clearly worried. “Why do you need to get in?” she asked.

“Because of this.” Sephiroth held up Lazard’s materia shard for all of them to see. “There are four pieces. This makes three. I need the fourth fragment in order to use the materia, and I think I know who has it.”

Lazard blinked. “You do? Who?”

“Professor Hojo.”


	52. Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see dead people.

For once, consciousness crept up softly, nudging him away from blessed oblivion and back into the waking world. With great reluctance, Vincent felt his senses start up again one by one. His first breath carried liquid with it and he coughed, more water spraying into his face. Groggily, he gathered his limbs under him and pushed up to hands and knees. His hair and clothing dripped, the drops echoing loudly. Evidently, he’d been lying in a shallow pool of tepid water. It was pitch dark, but his red eyes picked out the distant reflection of their own glow on liquid and crystal. Wherever he was, it was underground.

How the _hell_ had he ended up here?

The last thing he remembered was Sephiroth stabbing him so that his limit break would trigger, enabling Chaos to seize control. After that, it was all a blur of claws, tentacles, blood, and pain. It had ended in a colossal splash and a feeling like drowning. He had no idea if Chaos had won or not. The inside of his own head was oddly silent.

Maybe he was dead? Maybe they were _all_ dead? Nothing hurt, and though he had no idea what was going on, or where he was, Vincent felt reasonably calm and at peace, all things considered. However, if he was dead, he didn’t think this was the Lifestream. Perhaps, like the Deepground soldiers, his body would take longer to evaporate into pyreflies? Until then, what would become of his spirit? Did that mean he was a ghost? Would his phantom wander the earth until the mortal remains that tethered his spirit rotted away?

Vincent started, whipping around and leveling his pistol at a flicker of motion. To his amazement, Gallian sat on his haunches facing him, forepaws raised in surrender. Slowly, Vincent eased the hammer down and holstered his weapon.

“...Gallian?”

“ _Alpha,_ ” Gallian yapped, tail swaying happily from side to side. Vincent stepped forward to wrap his arms around the great neck and bury his face in the thick scruff, but stumbled back as he connected with a solid wall of what he thought at first was glass. Rubbing his nose, Vincent squinted at the translucent barrier and realized that it was one faceted side of an enormous formation of crystal. Right hand extended, Vincent approached until his fingers met the cool, reflective stone. Gallian mimicked the gesture, his massive paw held up to Vincent’s hand. Was he trapped, or was it just an illusion?

“Where are we?”

“ _Gaia,_ ” Gallian answered. Vincent reflected that he really should have elaborated. Gallian often took things somewhat literally. “ _Here,_ ” Gallian whuffed. “ _Now. Present._ ”

Gallian’s concept of time was different from that of a human. The beast tracked his past by generations, seasons, and events; not by days, weeks, months, or years. It didn’t matter to Gallian if twenty-five years had gone by or not. His race had died out long ago, and with no one to tie himself to, only his own needs mattered. Although he mourned the loss, survival was more important. It didn’t matter if he “belonged” to the here-and-now so long as he could find a way to exist. He had not forgotten what had happened to all of them, but it did not weigh as heavily upon him. Vincent envied him his ability to shrug off the pain of their scars. 

“I don’t know where or when I am,” Vincent said quietly. “I keep expecting to wake up in the lab, or maybe the box. Hell, maybe I’ll wake up on the bedroom floor in the Shinra mansion with a spectacular hangover and _all_ of this will have been a bad dream.”

Gallian whined in sympathy. “ _Nose and ears and eyes do not lie,_ ” he replied. “ _Trust senses._ ”

“I can’t. How can I if it’s all in my head? _You’re_ in my head.”

“ _Am I dream?_ ” the beast asked, and Vincent fell silent. Although he still wondered if he had gone mad, never had he doubted that the other creatures sharing his mind were separate, sentient creatures with thoughts and feelings of their own. There was no refuting that.

“No,” Vincent answered, “you’re real.”

Offering him a canine smile, Gallian dropped to all fours and ambled away into the dim purple shadows of the crystal. The spiked tail disappeared into the gloom and Vincent wondered if he had imagined the conversation? 

Turning away from the pile of crystal spears where Gallian had appeared, Vincent wandered deeper into the darkness. The ground was a mix of bare rock and gravel beneath his feet, his steps echoing loudly. Vincent stopped short, certain he’d heard something besides his own footsteps. Stepping forward, he froze at the sound of crunching gravel behind him.

No. Not behind, _beside_. Gigas strode along at his elbow, his image rippling oddly beneath the glistening surface of the rock wall. Vincent blinked and Gigas did as well. He had always thought of Gigas as bigger than himself. Now, standing face-to-face, Vincent realized he was actually half a head taller. Gigas, however, was strong and bulky, more than twice as wide as Vincent. Gigas had had almost as much surgery as Vincent himself. The one advantage Gigas had was that all his flesh- with the exception of some skin grafts- was his own. He would not talk about what had happened, or the life that had been stolen from him.

“What are you doing here?” Vincent asked him. “How did you get out?”

“Same as you,” Gigas shrugged.

“But...you’re here…and not inside my head.”

“You sure it’s not you inside _my_ head?” Gigas smiled crookedly, and Vincent tried to return it, knowing he was teasing.

“We are not the men we once were,” Gigas went on solemnly. “Both of us are held together by duct tape and wishful thinking.”

Vincent couldn’t help a wry smile at that. “I could deal with losing an arm but…”

Gigas nodded. “Losing a part of yourself is one thing. Having it replaced with something that doesn’t belong is different.”

“I didn’t ask for this…” Vincent whispered into the darkness. “I expected to die in the line of duty. I was okay with bleeding out on the lab floor. I did not expect Lucy to save my life no matter how hard she tried.”

“Yeah,” Gigas agreed. “Heart, lungs, liver, blood, bone… I forget what else.”

Vincent did too, the many surgeries and accompanying haze of pain had long since blurred into an unpleasant fog. “There’s not much of the original left.”

“Does that matter?”

Vincent looked up, but only the red reflection of his own eyes looked back at him. Gigas was gone. There was nowhere to go but forward.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and it was now easier to pick out details of the cavern. Crystal formations competed for space with stalagmites, the red glow of his own gaze reflecting off the smooth surfaces. Likewise, a series of glimmering pools dotted the floor. Some were no more than puddles, others were nearly as long as he was tall. He must have been lying in one of these when he woke up. Or had he fallen asleep? Or was he now wandering some sort of limbo in the afterlife? It was impossible to tell.

Stepping closer to examine one of the pools, Vincent jumped as a reflection that was not his own wavered into view.

“Masuka.”

Shoving her mask back, she smiled for him.

“First Gallian, then Gigas, now you,” Vincent mused. “What’s going on? What are you trying to tell me?”

“I cannot tell you what I do not know myself,” she told him with a shrug.

“Are we dead?” he asked. Masuka looked away.

“My grandmother told me that to die was to fall asleep and wake among those you love. I thought that when I closed my eyes, I would be reunited with her and my baby. Instead, I was greeted by strangers just as wounded and frightened as I.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent apologized.

Masuka shook her head. “Although I wanted to blame you, I cannot. You are trapped along with the rest of us.”

All he could offer her was more empty apologies. Vincent scrounged for something to say, but came up empty.

“I did not ask for my baby, nor did I wish him dead,” she continued. “Though he did not live to draw his first breath, I loved him. You did not ask for us, but I believe you have become fond of us.”

“I have,” Vincent said honestly. “I could not have survived without all of you.”

“Did you want to survive?”

Vincent did not answer right away. He had thought he was at peace with the idea of returning to the planet, yet raw instinct had driven him to cling to life no matter what. Indeed, each of them had taken it in turn to defend the battered, broken body that they all shared. Because of this, as a unit they were extremely difficult to kill. He was not so vain as to think them immortal- Chaos excluded- but knowing that their mortality had been compromised made the prospect of leaving this earth so much more complicated. Whether Masuka or any of the others wanted it all to stop as badly as he did, he didn’t know. Indeed, he might be able to deal with this fever dream everyone insisted was the Future if only he could take five minutes to collect himself and figure out what the hell was going on. Five minutes. Just five minutes to turn it off, to make it stop. Just for a little while.

“I’m so tired…” he said, voice soft. “I’ve spent the last twenty-five years asleep, but had no rest. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“How long is long enough?”

“I don’t know,” Vincent sighed. “Until Jenova is gone? Until Shinra has fallen? Until Sephiroth no longer needs me?”

And how long would that be? If Veld were to be believed, he should be fifty-three. His father had been fifty-two when he died, his mother had been just thirty-seven. Even Geoff had died at only forty-two. By rights he should have dissolved into pyreflies in Nibelheim at twenty-seven. He would not have been the youngest Turk to die in the line of duty, but he would have been the youngest Valentine.

“I miss my family,” Vincent murmured. “I miss my dad, and my brother. I miss Lucy. I miss my mom. Most of the people I love are already gone. I don’t want to be the only one left…”

“You will always have us…”

Vincent wasn’t sure if that was consolation or not. A drop of water fell from the ceiling into the pool, sending rings rippling out toward the edges, Masuka vanishing beneath the miniature waves. Convinced now that he was either dead or dreaming, Vincent rose and squinted into the dim interior of the cavern. The puddles seemed to be the result of overflow from a larger source. Following the runoff channels upstream, he blinked as the darkness gradually began to lighten. It took him a minute to realize that the puddles themselves were glowing, emitting a soft, indigo light. Ahead, a brighter light sparkled in the form of an enormous bouquet of crystal spears.

“...Lucrecia?”

Vincent blinked, rubbed his eyes with his remaining hand, and tried again. The crystal formation was still there. So was she. Gast had mentioned that sometimes crystals formed from the outside in, leaving a hollow center filled with liquid. This must be one such case. Within one of the largest spears, Lucrecia drifted as if drowned. She looked as young, as beautiful as he remembered. 

Most of the crystal had frosted over, leaving a clear view of only her face and upper torso. Her dark hair floated around her like a cloud, the tattered remains of a yellow ribbon still spiraling the loose strands. Strangely, she still wore the crystal earrings and strand of pearls that she had worn every day. Otherwise, she’d been wrapped in a long white shroud, possibly the very sheets on which she’d given birth. Like her ribbon, the winding sheet was also slowly disintegrating, the frayed edges drifting around her like the tippets of a Cetran robe.

“Lucy…” he breathed, stepping forward.

‘ _...Vincent?_ ’

He inhaled sharply, stopping short. The voice had been spoken as loudly, as clearly as any he’d ever heard.

“Lucrecia!” he cried, darting toward her, reaching out with his flesh hand.

‘ _No! Stay back!_ ’

Too late. He did not have time to be confused, to be insulted, or even hurt. His next step was not on firm stone, but through water, plunging him into silence. Vincent resisted the urge to yelp in surprise, tried to claw for the surface, but he was far too heavy. His boots, his weapon, and worst of all his arm weighing him down and drawing him rapidly toward the bottom- if there _was_ a bottom. The pool seemed endless. His lungs began to burn. Furiously, he tried to work the shoulder loose, to yank the clasps of his cloak open, but it was no use. Almost without thinking, he took a breath.

And found he could breathe just fine. It wasn’t water.

“...makou,” he mused aloud. The puddles weren’t full of water, they were full of _makou_ ; dark, stagnant makou that had fascinated both Lucrecia and his father. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about drowning, but one case of makou poisoning was all Vincent cared to suffer. It was almost funny, in a way. He would live, but if he did not find a way out, he’d lose himself to the thoughts and feelings of all those who had gone on before him. Perhaps that was the only path left by which he and the other souls trapped inside this broken shell of a body might return to the planet?

His arm, the heaviest part of him, dragged him head-first toward the distant bottom of the makou well. Looking up past his feet, Vincent watched as the hole he’d fallen through shrank smaller and smaller as he sank. Like an upturned bowl with a hole punched in the bottom, the makou well was much larger than a simple well shaft, the purple-pink liquid filling a vast space that seemed to have neither walls nor floor. Pressure began to build inside his ears and Vincent wondered again just how deep the well was. Trying to swim was pointless. Even if he could undo the catches of his cloak, kick off his boots, and unbuckle his gunbelt, he could not remove his arm by himself. He would still be too heavy to return the way he had come.

Vincent couldn’t bring himself to be frightened or even angry. This was not the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. It was certainly not the most violent. Back in the lab, before the box, when he wasn’t in the makou pod, he’d been heavily sedated. It wasn’t that Gallian had found the cell claustrophobic, or that Masuka had a panic attack every time someone in a white coat came near. What had made it so unbearable was that there was no end, no pause, no time to take a breath and brace for the next round of torture. They had continued to stick him and stab him with needles and curses as if he were a life-sized voodoo doll until his visceral fluid drained away from so many holes. And then they’d patched him up and started all over again before the old wounds had even stopped bleeding. Everyone- Gallian, Gigas, Masuka, himself- had just wanted it to stop.

More often than not the staff had arrived in the morning to find him lying in a pool of his own blood, clothing shredded and flesh torn. They had tried restraining him, even put him in a straight jacket, but it wasn’t until they put the muzzle on him that the blood finally stopped. It hadn’t stopped him from trying, however. They’d collapsed the bunk, and then removed it from the wall entirely once they figured out why Gallian or Gigas kept showing up. They’d taken his pillow and bedding too, leaving only a bare pallet for him to sleep on. Even still, they’d had to keep him restrained. With few other options left, he’d started banging his head against the walls. Not long after that, they’d put him in the box…

“ _ **What has happened to you is a thing that should not be done under the sky,**_ ” a deep, guttural voice intoned from everywhere and nowhere. Instinctively Vincent looked for the source of the voice, hand going to his weapon, but there was no one, just the endless void of the dark makou. “ _ **Too much has happened to you- to all of you- and I have not helped you as I should.**_ ”

The darkness condensed, solidifying into a clawed hand that closed with surprising gentleness around his false arm. Vincent watched, bemused, as an arm, a well-muscled body, crested head, batlike wings, and a spiked tail slowly materialized.

“Chaos…” In the thirty years the demon had shared his mind, he had kept almost entirely to himself, only surfacing to fight in the most extreme circumstances. All of them were more than a little wary of him. This was the first time he had come forward to interact, to speak face to face as equals. “What’s happening?” Vincent asked him, suspicious, but not the least bit afraid. “What do you want?”

There was something like regret, perhaps even sadness in Chaos’ monstrous features. 

“ _ **I had forgotten,**_ ” he rumbled, the words a dark yet heartfelt apology. Vincent blinked.

“ _ **Humans were not meant to suffer more than eighty or ninety years at most,**_ ” Chaos explained. “ _ **Many ages ago, I too was buried alive, and in my exile I had forgotten what it was to love and be loved by creatures so small and fragile. When I became bound to you, I was reminded forcefully of how delicate mortals are. My bitterness blinded me to all suffering but my own. Forgive me. I saw your pain as transient and without meaning, one small scream among the cries of thousands. I thought the pain of many more important than that of one man. The death of Jenova and the life of Gaia must take precedence; yet how could I hope to do anything if my host was unwell?**_ ”

Vincent had no idea how to respond to that. The polite thing would be to accept with a gracious ‘thank you’, but he was too stunned to reply. Out of all the creatures in his head, Chaos had loomed largest, but seemed the least real. Vincent had been raised with the legends and stories of the Old Gods, still kept the holy days in small ways and offered prayers, but Chaos had never figured much into any of it. Even now, he could not dismiss the possibility that all of this might simply be a hallucination.

“ _ **You do not believe me?**_ ” the demon asked.

“I think you are sincere,” Vincent replied, “but I don’t know if I can believe anything else.”

“ _ **This has been one endless nightmare for you, for all of you…**_ ”

One understatement deserved another. Vincent nodded. “It has.”

“ _ **Would you like it to end?**_ ”

That made him stop short. It was not dying, or the prospect of death that made Vincent catch his breath and caused his unbeating heart to shiver. He had made countless attempts on himself, flown headlong into situations that by rights should have cost him his life because he didn’t _care_ if it did. Except thanks to the others, it hadn’t. They had all survived, and no one could decide if it was relief or a disappointment to wake up and realize they were still alive. The prospect of having it stop, of it being well and truly over…

“Don’t…” Vincent began. “Don’t taunt me, don’t taunt _them!_ ”

“ _ **Jenova must die,**_ ” Chaos insisted. “ _ **I can defeat her; I and my siblings, but I cannot do so bound to a mortal body. If you would spare those you love, if you would see this planet live on, I must beg a terrible favor of you.**_ ”

Vincent followed Chaos’ red-eyed stare and found himself looking at his own breast pocket. His memory skipped, the night spent at the Corel Prison coming to mind. Chaos had tried to tear out the materia by force. Now, however, he was asking politely.

“The materia is what’s keeping all of us bound together,” he mused. “It’s what’s keeping us alive when by rights, we should be dead.”

Chaos nodded. “ _ **Without it, neither you, nor any of the others could survive.**_ ”

As much as he wanted it to be over, as much as he wanted to lay down and sleep a dreamless sleep and never wake up, as much as he desperately longed to be with the friends and family he had lost, this was not his decision to make alone.

“I cannot choose for them,” Vincent told him. “I can’t kill three other people just because I’m sick and tired.”

Chaos nodded. “ _ **I understand. Ask them, then, and see if you all agree.**_ ”

 _I want to be with my family,_ Masuka’s voice said, as loud and distinct as if she’d spoken in his ear.

 _Where she goes, I go,_ Gigas added.

 _I will follow the pack leader,_ Gallian rumbled, _even unto the Happy Hunting Grounds._

 _Are you sure?_ Vincent asked. The feeling of warmth, of sympathy, was liked being hugged from the inside. Yes, they were sure. Taking a deep breath, Vincent raised his metal hand and popped the claws on each finger. It would be harder to dig the fine talons of Palmer’s design into his own flesh than the simple scythe-like fingers of Hojo’s model. Best to get it over with.

The strangest part was that it didn’t even hurt. For a moment Vincent stared at the red stone trapped within the brazen fingers. To think that this was what had kept them all alive these many years. A misty plume of black trailed from his chest. Without the Chaos materia to fill the hole in his ruined heart, he was bleeding out. Everything had suddenly gone quiet. Feeling light-headed, Vincent held the stone out to Chaos.

“Take it,” he told him. “Finish her. Do what you need to do. If there is any part of me that you can use, then take it.”

“ _ **You have my thanks,**_ ” Chaos told him, gently prying the materia from Vincent’s claw. “ _ **Go now and sleep in peace.**_ ”

Without the demon to hold him steady, Vincent began to sink once more.The black column of his own blood streamed toward the far away surface, a dark streak in the purple-pink depths. Distantly, he felt his shoulders touch the sandy bottom with a gentle thud, his legs following a moment later. He had never been so tired. Already he could feel something tugging at him, as if an unseen current were pulling him away; away from his body, from this life. True darkness had begun to descend though he had not yet closed his eyes. At last. He was more than ready for it to be over.

 

\--

 

She had never expected to see him again, yet there he was, or rather, what was left of him. Vincent had been in bad shape, but stable the last time she’d seen him. Seiji had assured her that he was recovering well and that she didn’t need to worry about him. They had both done all they could for him; either he would recover, or he wouldn’t.

The results, as they too often were in science, had proven inconclusive.

Almost thirty years ago, Vincent had recently lost an arm and a lot of blood, but had been breathing on his own thanks to the Chaos materia she had implanted in his chest. He had been young then, just twenty-seven that autumn. Lucrecia had discovered she was pregnant only a few weeks later. Watching in snatches through her son’s eyes had shown her many things: Sephiroth’s life in the lab, his time in Wutai, and most recently, his escape from Shinra. She had never thought she’d be proud of him for running away. During all that time, Vincent had not appeared until very recently, and she had been as surprised then as she was now. He looked the same and yet entirely different. Rather, he had not aged a day, he still had the smooth skin and dark hair of a man in his late twenties, but said hair had grown out past his shoulders, he was desperately thin under the long red cloak, and where the prosthetic arm had come from she had no idea. It was as if someone had tried to make a doppleganger of him, but had achieved only limited success.

‘ _Vincent?_ ’ she asked softly.

The body, of course, did not move, but the spirit stirred. Rising from his mortal coil, Vincent sat up and rubbed his head with one hand- one he’d been missing for the last three decades. He seemed caught between perplexity and joy, and she gave him time to let it sink in, and to watch the slow smile spread across his face.

‘ _Hello, Vincent._ ’

He gaped at her even as she held out a hand to help him to his feet, and she supposed she couldn’t really blame him. It had been ages, and he had no reason to be happy to see her. She blinked, inhaling sharply as he took her hand, stood, and in the same motion drew her close and wrapped both arms around her. For a moment she hesitated, standing stiff and awkward in his arms before she melted and hugged him back.

‘ _I’m so sorry…_ ’ They said it in unison. Lucrecia smiled despite herself as Vincent relaxed his grip and she stepped back. She had had nightmares about the incident that had cost Vincent’s father his life, about what she would say to Vincent himself. Even with thirty years to think about it, all she managed to blurt was:

‘ _It was an accident!_ ’

Vincent’s brow creased and he cocked his head to one side, confused. ‘ _What was?_ ’

It occurred to her that there were a number of relevant variables that might be considered an accident: his father’s death, the loss of his arm, her pregnancy…

‘ _Your father,_ ’ she said, trying to force her voice to remain steady and not doing a very good job of it. ‘ _It should have been me, but he pushed me out of the way and…_ ’ She swallowed hard and looked at her feet, feeling hot stears sting her eyes. ‘ _I’m so sorry…_ ’

‘ _Lucy…_ ’ He laid a hand on her shoulder and she looked up, painfully glad to hear the old nickname. Most everyone had truncated it even further, simply calling her ‘Lu’, but Vincent and Dr. Valentine had chosen the middle ground between her overly-elaborate given name and the two-letter diminutive she hadn’t liked until Seiji began to use it. ‘ _I’m not angry,_ ’ he told her gently. ‘ _I never was. I knew what my dad was like. I know he would have done that for any of his students. He would never have been able to forgive himself if something had happened to you._ ’

For some reason she had not expected that. Had their positions been reversed, she would have been grief-stricken and angry if only for a little while. Then again, he had lived every day of the last twenty-five years and Time, or so it was said, healed all wounds. His wounds certainly looked better, at least he’d had a new arm grafted on. Prosthetics had come a long way in thirty years. 

‘ _Did my family send you,_ ’ he asked, ‘ _or did you come on your own?_ ’

Now it was her turn to be confused. ‘ _Your family?_ ’ she echoed. Vincent’s family- with the possible exception of his younger brother- were all dead.

...oh.

‘ _I’m afraid this isn’t the Lifestream,_ ’ she told him with no small measure of regret. Vincent’s face fell and fresh guilt pierced her heart.

‘ _So...we’re not dead?_ ’

She shrugged. ‘ _Yes and no? We’re not alive, but so long as our bodies are preserved in makou...so are we._ ’

‘ _Then we’re stuck here?_ ’

‘ _For the foreseeable future, yes._ ’

Unaccountably, Vincent began to laugh. Lucrecia stepped back, alarmed, as the laughter took on a hysterical edge, eventually degenerating into a sob.

‘ _Vincent…?_ ’

‘ _I’m sorry,_ ’ he stammered, trying to master himself. ‘ _Oh gods, I cannot win for losing._ ’

She just looked at him, utterly perplexed. Sighing heavily, Vincent studied the sandy bottom of the well for a moment as he gathered words with which to explain. That was something she had always liked about him. Most people spouted thoughts and ideas like water from a fountain, saying anything and everything that came into their heads. Vincent, however, thought about what he said before he said it. Whenever he opened his mouth, it was always worth listening.

‘ _It’s...complicated,_ ’ he began. ‘ _I spent a long time in the makou pod in the lab. Years. I’m not sure how many. Hojo made some other...modifications... to me. I guess he thought I must not have survived one of them because he put me in a coffin in the crypt of the Shinra Mansion. Except I wasn’t dead. It was Sephiroth who eventually let me out._ ’

Lucrecia just stared, her brain doing its best to keep pace with the extraordinary statements, but not quite managing. Why would he have needed to spend years- _years!_ \- in a makou pod? She’d been kept in one for over a year herself, until Ifalna had convinced Seiji that she was dead. Her memories of that time had been hazy; mostly sound without image. She had not begun to see the world through her son’s eyes until much later. What sort of modifications could Vincent have needed? Surely Seiji would have taken care of him. It wasn’t like him to neglect a patient or a specimen, but if he’d made the same mistake with Vincent that he’d made with her... 

‘ _He thought I was dead too,_ ’ she told him by way of commiseration.

‘ _So it’s Hojo’s fault you’re down here,_ ’ he growled, and the venom in his tone made her take a step back.

‘ _It wasn’t his fault,_ ’ she said quietly. ‘ _Ifalna and Professor Gast convinced him I was truly dead._ ’

‘ _But you weren’t._ ’

‘ _Mostly-dead is still partly-alive,_ ’ she told him, smiling, and was rewarded as the corners of Vincent’s mouth quirked upward. He’d never been vocal about his feelings, but she remembered his smile coming easier. Perhaps losing so many people and pieces of himself so close together had left an internal scar, making him more guarded than he had been.

‘ _I should have kept a closer watch on you,_ ’ Vincent murmured, studying the ground again. ‘ _I was supposed to protect you…_ ’

‘ _From what?_ ’ she asked, amused. ‘ _You’re the one who got shot, not me, and that was my fault._ ’

‘ _I’m not the one who got pregnant._ ’

She couldn’t help flinching at the remark. Turning, she looked away so she wouldn’t have see the stricken expression on his face.

‘ _Lucy… I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that…_ ’

‘ _I know,_ ’ she said softly. ‘ _Do you really think you could have protected me from that? From Seiji? From myself? He didn’t force me, if that’s what you’re worried about._ ’

‘ _That...hadn’t occurred to me, actually,_ ’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘ _I just… It wasn’t right, Lucy. They forced your hand. No one left you any choice. I couldn’t stand back and watch you get hurt._ ’

‘ _Does it still bother you that much?_ ’ she asked, not sure if she ought to be insulted or touched. ‘ _Did you know that it was actually a prerequisite when Ifalna and I applied?_

That made him look up, his expression a mix of horror and shock.

‘ _Both Ifalna and I knew what we were signing up for. It could have been either one of us. It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. Pepper had successfully bred some Gallian Behemoths using in vitro fertilization. I was prepared to be a surrogate. No one was experimenting on me or on the baby. The birth itself was the experiment._ ’

‘ _Gast wanted to resurrect the Cetra,_ ’ Vincent mused, still appalled, but rational. ‘ _I suppose he did, after a fashion. Did you know Ifalna was descended from the Ancients? They got married, had a daughter together. Her name is Aeris._ ’

‘ _Yes, Sephiroth’s met her a few times. She was traveling with you, wasn’t she?_ ’

Vincent nodded. ‘ _Yes. She’s been a big help. She’s a good girl._ ’

Lucrecia smiled. ‘ _I’d expect no less from Iffy’s daughter._ ’

A pause. ‘ _Wait, how do you know all this?_ ’

‘ _It’s hard to explain,_ ’ Lucrecia shrugged. ‘ _I...dream. It’s as if I’m watching the world through Sephiroth’s eyes. It seems to happen more often when he’s in trouble. I think I saw a fragment of every day he spent in Wutai._ ’

‘ _How is that possible?_ ’

‘ _I think it has something to do with the Jenova in our bodies. It’s created a bond of sorts between us. I don’t know if he’s aware of it, but I’m glad I have a way to keep an eye on him, even if I can’t do anything to help him._ ’

‘ _He’s your son,_ ’ Vincent agreed.

‘ _He’s all grown up now, but I wish I could put my arms around him just once… I blacked out as soon as he was born, so I never got to hold him..._ ’

‘ _I’m sorry, Lucy…_ ’

She shook her head, but let him put an arm around her. They were both spirits, manifestations of energy and light, yet he felt warm and solid as she leaned against him. Up until that moment, she had not realized how much she missed human contact.

‘ _It wasn’t your fault._ ’

‘ _I could have done something. I could have…_ ’ He trailed off, voice breaking and collapsing into silence.

‘ _Could have what?_ ’

He shook his head, swallowed hard, avoided her eyes. ‘ _It’s not important. We’re both dead, or nearly so._ ’

It wasn’t worth it to try to coax the words out of him. One couldn’t force what wasn’t there. When he had the words to explain, he would tell her. Instead, she said to him:

‘ _Well, if I had to pick someone to spend Eternity with, you would be on my short list._ ’

The smile he gave her was real, but gods it looked as if it hurt. What had _happened_ to him while she’d been sealed in her tomb of crystal? Perhaps it would be better to prompt him just this once.

‘ _Vincent, what happened?_ ’ she asked softly. He forced another fractured smile and shook his head.

‘ _It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago._ ’

‘ _It does matter,_ ’ she insisted, taking his left hand and holding it in both of hers. ‘ _You said Seiji did something to you, that you were in a makou pod for years._ ’ She looked down at his hand, at the wide palm and long fingers, more than twice the size of her own. Seiji’s terrified gunshot had shattered Vincent’s arm at the shoulder. He would have had to function for years without it, but he had never learned to think of himself with only one arm. ‘ _I only ask because… He’s not like he used to be. I watched it happen over time, what he did to Sephiroth. I don’t believe he wanted to hurt him but…something’s wrong and I don’t know what._ ’

‘ _He wasn’t worried about hurting me,_ ’ Vincent said grimly. ‘ _I don’t know if he was actively trying to kill me, but he didn't seem to care about whether or not he caused pain._ ’

Lacing her fingers through his, she squeezed his hand. ‘ _I watched him change. I watched the Jenova Project become the Sephiroth Project, and Shinra try to turn my precious baby into a killing machine…_ ’

‘ _He’s not a killing machine, Lucy,_ ’ Vincent told her earnestly. ‘ _He’s a soldier, but he’s a good kid. A good man with a good heart. Shinra may have taught him to swing a sword, but he’s still human. If he wasn’t, he would never have left._ ’

It was her turn to smile, and she leaned her head against his bicep, his shoulder too high out of reach. ‘ _I’m glad. I’m proud of him, but I can’t help being scared for him._ ’

‘ _You wouldn’t be his mother if you weren’t worried about him._ ’

‘ _I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a mother,_ ’ she sighed. ‘ _He never saw my face or heard my voice. I never got to hold him in my arms. I love him, but he has no idea who I am._ ’

‘ _Yes he does,_ ’ Vincent said gently, squeezing her shoulder. ‘ _I made sure of that._ ’

She had to swallow back her gratitude before she could speak. The lump in her throat certainly wasn’t threatening tears. ‘ _Thank you. I was afraid he’d believe that nonsense about Jenova being his mother. Sometimes, I think Seiji gets the two of us confused in his memory._ ’

‘ _ **That is not all he has confused,**_ ’ a deep voice growled, annoyance making every syllable sharp. Lucrecia blinked as a red stone the size of a tennis ball rolled up to them, sand wafting in its wake. Vincent seemed equally surprised and crouched down to more closely examine the materia that had lately been embedded in his chest.

‘ _Well that didn’t work,_ ’ Vincent remarked.

‘ _ **Not at all,**_ ’ Chaos agreed

‘ _Sorry,_ ’ a third voice apologized. ‘ _He got away from us. We don’t mean to interrupt._ ’

‘ _No, it’s okay,_ ’ Vincent assured the newcomer, standing. ‘ _Are all of you stuck down here too?_ ’

‘ _Looks that way._ ’ The voice condensed, taking the form of a tall man with fair hair and broad shoulders. A woman not much taller than Lucrecia was herself and dressed in a rustic kimono stood at his side, her arm threaded through the crook of his elbow. Behind them, a creature extinct for the last hundred years loped up and sat down beside them: a Gallian Behemoth. Lucrecia looked from one face to the next, thoroughly confused. Clearly Vincent knew these people, but how or why they had manifested here, she could not begin to guess.

It took Vincent a moment to remember his manners. Putting a hand behind her shoulders, he guided her forward a step.

‘ _Guys, this is Dr. Lucrecia Crescent, one of my best friends. Lucrecia, this is Gigas, Masuka, and Gallian. We’ve been...close...for the last couple of years._ ’

There was something he was not telling her, was unwilling to disclose, but what secrets did the dead- or nearly-dead- have to keep? Still, Lucrecia smiled and stepped forward to shake hands with Gigas. Almost as tall as Vincent, and powerfully built, he carefully took her hand and shook. Masuka, just beside him, pressed her hands together and offered her a rough bow.

‘ _I saw you once,_ ’ Masuka commented. ‘ _You used to be in the tank next to ours. Not long after that, you were gone._ ’

Gallian wasted no time in padding up to her and scenting her hand. An unmistakable canine smile split his jaws as Lucrecia gave him a brief scratch behind the ears.

‘ _I’m very pleased to meet you all,_ ’ she said, observing the niceties. ‘ _I do not mean to be rude, but why are you here?_ ’

Humans and beast exchanged awkward looks, all them eventually looking expectantly at Vincent who rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

‘ _I...didn’t want to upset you,_ ’ he began haltingly. ‘ _I didn’t want to start an argument, but if you’ve seen what happened to Sephiroth…_ ’ Steeling himself, he took a deep breath. ‘ _Remember how I mentioned that Hojo had made some modifications to me?_ ’

She nodded. ‘ _Yes._ ’

‘ _Well, there they are,_ ’ he gestured at the visitors and Lucrecia felt her brows crease in confusion.

‘ _I’m afraid I don’t understand…_ ’

‘ _ **The one you call Hojo did that which should not be done to beneath the sky,**_ Chaos said, his deep voice booming loudly from the small stone. ‘ _ **Blood may be given, and tissue shared, but a soul belongs to itself. A body was not made to serve more than one mind, yet this one has coped admirably.**_ ’

Vincent blinked, unsure if Chaos was making fun of him or not.

‘ _ **In the beginning, Hojo did what he could to save this man’s life, to try to make him well. He was given blood and bone and tissue, and these allowed him to live. However, those from whom the tissue was taken lived on as well. If you like, you may assign the blame to me. Had I not been present, none of them would stand here now.**_ ’

‘ _Under normal circumstances, a patient would have to take anti-rejection medication in order to fool their body into accepting a transplanted organ,_ ’ Lucrecia mused. ‘ _However, you were the first foreign object to be implanted in Vincent’s body. There’s been very little research regarding materia implants, but may I assume that it was your- for lack of a better word- magic that kept not just Vincent but everyone else alive?_ ’

The materia rolled forward and back in what could be interpreted as a nod. ‘ _ **My presence allowed their souls to remain bonded to their physical elements, where under other circumstances, their consciousness would have departed to rejoin the Lifestream.**_ ’

‘ _So all of us survived instead of just Valentine,_ ’ Gigas observed. ‘ _In a manner a’ speakin’, anyway._ ’

‘ _It took all of us to survive,_ ’ Vincent reminded him. ‘ _None of us could have done it alone._ ’

‘ _Survive…_ ’ Lucrecia echoed hollowly, feeling the color drain from her already ghostly face. ‘ _What do you mean survive? Why would it take all…? What did you…? Did he… ?_ ’ she stumbled backwards, feeling Vincent’s strong hands catch her and hold her steady. 

‘ _Lucy,_ ’ Vincent told her gently, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘ _You weren’t there when it happened. It’s alright. We’re all good friends, well almost all of us._ ’ Looking down, he eyed the Chaos materia distrustfully.

‘ _Oh gods..._ ’ she breathed, both hands moving to cover her mouth. ‘ _Oh gods, I’m so sorry…_ ’

Gigas shook his head. ‘ _No, ma’am. Ain’t your fault. Weren’t your doin’._ ’

Lucrecia barely heard him. The spirits before her no longer concerned her. Sephiroth had cried out for help and there was no one to hear him but her. He was in trouble, in desperate need, but there was no one to help him.

‘ _...crecia? Lucrecia?!_ ’ Vincent’s worried face swam into view. ‘ _Are you alright? What happened?_ ’

‘ _Sephiroth…_ ’ she breathed, trying hard to split her attention between living and dead. ‘ _Seiji… Jenova… He needs help! Someone must help him!!_ ’

Vincent’s features creased in concentration as he tried to make sense of her fragmented cries. ‘ _Hojo has Sephiroth?_ ’

‘ _Yes,_ ’ it was not exactly accurate, but close enough.

‘ _And you’re afraid Jenova will bend Sephiroth to her will, is that it?_ ’

It was the most immediate concern. ‘ _Yes._ ’

‘ _What can I do?_ ’

Dear Vincent. Despite her anxiety, she could have kissed him. He was as noble, as selfless as his father had been, but what aid could the dead be to the living? He was dead, or as good as, and so was she. So were they all. Even Chaos was no more than a stone at the bottom of a well that was almost a mile deep. None of them had any hope of saving her son from danger.

‘ _ **It is not your husband, but Jenova who threatens your son,**_ ’ Chaos said, his guttural voice oddly quiet. ‘ _ **His will has not been his own for many years. Through him, she will wreak untold destruction.**_ ’

‘ _So that wasn’t just Hojo being an ass?_ ’ Vincent asked, blushing and opening his mouth to apologize once he’d realized what he’d said.

‘ _ **He shed no tears over you, no,**_ ’ Chaos agreed dryly, ‘ _ **but he had no grudge against you personally. That honor belonged to me. Once Jenova and I had an understanding, but she betrayed me and my siblings. We have been at odds ever since. Her attempts at erasing human life from this planet were- as you mortals put it- a deal-breaker.**_ ’

All of them just stared at the small red stone.

‘ _ **What?**_ ’ the demon huffed. ‘ _ **You think a Force of Nature cannot fall in love? Cannot make mistakes? I assure you it can, and does, and has happened.**_ ’

‘ _It is said that the Great Leviathan and the Lady Bahamut fell in love,_ ’ Masuka said, sinking down on her knees before the stone. ‘ _The great dragons of sea and sky would fly together; one above the waves, and one below. It is where the currents of the deep, and the sailing winds come from. Their children govern the weather and the stars._ ’

The materia glimmered, the approximation of a smile.

‘ _ **I am glad to see not all of you have forgotten the sacred stories,**_ ’ Chaos said. ‘ _ **I do not ask or expect your forgiveness. I only wish you to understand.**_ ’

‘ _My son…,_ ’ Lucrecia gasped, struggling to focus on two places at once. ‘ _Please, Lord Chaos, will you help my son?_ ’

‘ _ **I cannot,**_ ’ the demon told her, something like an apology in his tone. ‘ _ **I thought that if I could be free of a mortal body, I would be free to take matters into my own claws. Now I see this is not possible. As I am, I am no more than a tool to be wielded by another. I am truly sorry.**_ ’

Unable to help herself, Lucrecia broke down sobbing. Vincent gathered her close, a troubled expression on his face. For a long moment he held her, silently smoothing her back as she cried.

‘ _What if you had a mortal body?_ ’ he asked. ‘ _Can we be put back together?_ ’

The others exchanged glances, but said nothing. Even Chaos somehow managed to look surprised.

‘ _ **Jenova must die,**_ ’ Chaos repeated. ‘ _ **So long as she lives, this planet and every living thing upon it is in danger. Yet you have all suffered so much already, I cannot ask you…**_ ’

Vincent turned to the others, a questioning look on his face.

‘ _Well, we ain’t dead yet,_ ’ Gigas shrugged. ‘ _No sense hangin’ round here when there’s work to do._ ’

‘ _Jenova stole my son from me as well,_ ’ Masuka said. ‘ _I will fight with you._ ’

‘ _Facebite,_ ’ Gallian snarled.

‘ _That’s settled, then,_ ’ Vincent said with a decisive nod. Reluctantly, he looked towards his body, a misty plume of black blood still rising from the hole in its chest like smoke from a chimney. For a moment Lucrecia felt guilty. He had no reason to do this, he owed her no favors. Sephiroth was not _his_ son, and yet if he could protect her baby… 

‘ _Vincent?_ ’

‘ _I’ll do this for you,_ ’ he told her earnestly. ‘ _I want to do this. I want to help Sephiroth, the trouble is...I’m not sure I can._ ’

‘ _What do you mean?_ ’ she asked, fear stabbing her afresh.

‘ _Jenova is the reason we’re down here. We're still alive...sort of...so I can’t say that we lost, but we didn’t exactly win, either. Chaos is right, he can’t fight her alone._ ’

‘ _What about you?_ ’

He gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh and shook his head. ‘ _I’m not convinced all this is real. There are huge gaps in my memory. I don’t know how much time I spent in the pod, the lab, the box… I don’t even remember what happened to me in any sort of detail. That’s...probably not a bad thing, but it means I can’t place myself in time. I don’t know where or when I am, and all I have to go on is the word of others. Others who may be just as imaginary as everything else…_ ’

Lucrecia made to go over to him, to rest a hand on his arm, but Gigas spoke up, making her stop short.

‘ _What kinda holes?_ ’

Vincent shrugged. ‘ _I only remember bits and pieces from the last twenty-five years. Either I was unconscious or one of you was driving…_ ’ he trailed off as the light bulb clicked on. ‘ _You were awake. I might have been down for the count, but one of you was always watching._ ’

‘ _Not twenty-four-seven,_ ’ Gigas agreed, ‘ _but yeah. Somebody had to keep an eye out._ ’

‘ _What do you remember?_ ’ Vincent asked him eagerly, almost desperate. ‘ _Tell me!_ ’

‘ _Just bits n’ pieces, same as you, but maybe they overlap? Pick an instance and we’ll see what we got._ ’

Vincent thought for a moment, attention drawn inward before he replied. ‘ _The day we first saw Sephiroth._ ’

‘ _Alright, who’s goin’ first?_ ’

‘ _Experrrrrriment,_ ’ Gallian rumbled, padding forward and sitting down in front of Vincent. ‘ _Nasssssty needles. Howled and howled, but muzzzzzzzle. Collar. Leash._ ’

The memories were murky and skewed, but Vincent thought he remembered that particular instance inside the observation tank. They’d shot him up with something again, hoping to trigger Chaos but had gotten Gallian instead. They’d put the poor beast through his paces, trying to train him to attack what they wanted, but he’d snapped the mag rods they’d jabbed at him clean in half and chased several of the soldiers and techs around the tank before they’d managed to subdue him. He had howled in rage even after being tranquilized, snarling and slavering at the closed door of their cell until he’d collapsed from exhaustion.

‘ _I woke up cold and hungry,_ ’ Vincent said lowly, picking up the tale. ‘ _But I didn’t want to eat, and they hadn’t taken the gag out of my mouth anyway. They were just as afraid that I might bite as they had been of Gallian._ ’

‘ _You slept, but I did not,_ ’ Masuka spoke up. ‘ _The door did not latch when the nurse came to take your plate away. Later, someone opened it. It was a baby._ ’

‘ _A baby?_ ’ Vincent echoed, bewildered. ‘ _What was a baby doing in the lab?_ ’

Masuka shrugged. ‘ _I don’t know. She was old enough to walk, but too little to talk much. She pushed the door open and came in. She was very sweet, with red curls and big green eyes. She was not afraid of us at all. Instead of running away, she curled up in our lap and went to sleep. I fell asleep too,_ ’ she admitted sheepishly. ‘ _We were all so tired._ ’

The image of a very little girl in a simple dress adorned with colorful rickrack and two tiny pigtails made of just three red ringlets apiece took shape in his mind’s eye. Through Masuka’s eyes, the child’s skin seemed startlingly white, her eyes a green so deep that they almost didn’t look real. Strangely, Vincent thought she looked familiar, but could not have said why.

‘ _It’s alright,_ ’ Vincent assured her. ‘ _What came next?_ ’

‘ _I took watch,_ ’ Gigas spoke up. ‘ _Nothing much happened, but I could see people going by in the hallway. None of them noticed the door was open, or if they did, they had other things to worry about. We were chained and gagged, it’s not like we were gonna do anything._ ’

‘ _But wouldn’t they have taken the child had they seen?_ ’ Lucrecia asked.

‘ _They did,_ ’ Gigas said grimly. ‘ _Hojo came in, kicked us in the face, an’ took the rug bug. I stepped back about then._ ’

‘ _Took pup,_ ’ Gallian growled, hackles raised. ‘ _Try to claw, try to bite, but muzzle._ ’

‘ _Left us with a bloody nose,_ ’ Vincent said quietly, recollection finally falling into place. Although he hadn’t transformed, Gallian had rushed to the front and tried to use Vincent’s body to attack Hojo. It hadn’t gone very well. ‘ _He took the baby and left, but he opened the door all the way in order to leave with her in his arms. When he opened the door, that’s when I saw Sephiroth._ ’

The image of Sephiroth- no more than six or seven- with bright green eyes and steel gray hair, a wooden sword in his hand, stood firm in his mind has few other things had. That had been real, not imagined, the events around it equally solid despite not coming from his own memory. If they could share their knowledge, patch together a timeline of sorts, it would be easier to tell the fever dreams from the grotesque absurdity that their lives had become. His thoughts were interrupted as something bumped against his foot. Looking down, Vincent noticed the Chaos materia sitting up against his shoe.

‘ _Did you see any of that day?_ ’ Vincent asked him.

‘ _ **I have seen more than most of you. I need no sleep, no rest. I do not count days, nor divide them into hours and minutes as mortals do. Would it truly ease your mind to find your place in time again?**_ ’

‘ _Gods, yes,_ ’ Vincent groaned. ‘ _Er, begging your pardon._ ’

The materia flickered, amused. ‘ _ **I held you all together once, I can do so again. Through me, you may share your thoughts but…**_ ’

‘ _...but?_ ’ Vincent prompted.

‘ _ **It would mean surrendering yourself as you have been. You would not be your own creature, standing apart, but a piece of a larger whole. All of you- all of US- would be part of one another. There is no going back from that.**_ ’

‘ _So you’d be bound to a mortal body for good,_ ’ Vincent said, trying to process what the demon was offering. ‘ _You’d be as much a part of us as we are of you._ ’

‘ _ **I would,**_ ’ Chaos agreed gravely. ‘ _ **I do not offer this lightly, but I believe it is the only way we may be able to conquer Jenova, or to save your beloved’s son.**_ ’

For a long moment Vincent stared at the shell of his body. Chaos could unite them, could restore the blank spots in his mind, but it would mean sharing his thoughts, his feelings, his very _self_ with the demon and the others. It would mean living on, perhaps not forever, but for years on end. They had been stupidly hard to kill before; this would make them damn near invincible. But Jenova _had_ to be destroyed, that was not up for discussion. At this point, Vincent wanted her dead just as much as Chaos. More importantly, he could not let Sephiroth come to harm. He might not be his son by blood, but dammit, he’d become attached to the kid.

Pulling himself up to his full, lanky height, Vincent squared his shoulders and approached his body. ‘ _Let’s do this._ ’

‘ _Vincent…_ ’ Lucrecia began, caught between grateful and afraid. ‘ _Thank you. Please, be careful._ ’

‘ _I’ll come back to you,_ ’ he promised, clasping her hands in both of his before letting go. She was not at all sure how to interpret that.

‘ _ **Daughter, would you be so kind?**_ ’ Chaos asked, a courtly note in his voice. Had he had a body, he might have bowed before her. ‘ _ **After all, it was your hands that first brought us together.**_ ’

‘ _Of course, Lord Chaos._ ’ Stooping, Lucrecia scooped up the materia in both hands. She waited as Vincent laid back down in his body, followed by Gallian, Gigas, and the woman Masuka. Carefully, she pulled back the torn edges of Vincent’s shirt, and pressed the materia into the hole in his flesh. The bleeding stopped almost at once. Feeling her throat tighten, she pressed her lips together and stroked his bangs back from his face with one hand. His phantom had not been this wasted, this deathly pale. Perhaps this time he would fare better. Which reminded her… Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his forehead.

‘ _Take this,_ ’ she whispered. ‘ _You’ll need it._ ’

 

\--

 

Heat. Pain. Pressure. And then- almost unnoticed beneath the agony of his body- a brief, light touch to his forehead. As if a switch had been flipped on a silent machine, he felt his heart restart, his body gather energy and rumble to life. Reflexively, he gasped, drawing in a sharp breath and opening his eyes. He coughed and gagged on the mouthful of water, jerking back and up onto his knees. His reflection looked back at him, wide-eyed and startled beneath the ripples of water. No, not water, stagnant makou. Hadn’t he been here once before? Inside his head, he could almost feel it as more and more of his brain came online. Yes. Yes he had done this once already, but looking up showed him that this was not the same puddle. The enormous crystal formation that served as Lucrecia’s tomb still loomed in front of him. This was the same puddle he’d fallen through, except now it was not even half an inch deep. What the hell?

Climbing to his feet, he kicked something and looked down as it clattered across the wet rock. Had his heart been beating, he was sure it would have stopped. His father’s old rifle lay in the shallow water, the wood glossy and the brass polished to a perfect shine just as he remembered it. Even the phoenix feather fixed to the sights was perfectly pristine. Crouching to pick it up, he dropped it almost at once. He had two hands- two hands of flesh and bone, though one was fair and the other black as the inside of the cavern.

‘ _ **A gift,**_ ’ Chaos’ voice echoed inside his head. ‘ _ **You will find it is not the only one.**_ ’

Vincent did not have to guess where the exit to the cavern was, he _knew_. Rather, Chaos knew where the exit was, and therefore, so did he. Shouldering the rifle, he stepped forward, heading toward a sliver of light and the sound of rushing water.

The source of the noise turned out to be a waterfall that hid the narrow crack in the mountainside from view. It was night outside, but the moon and stars shone brilliantly overhead. A vast lake stretched out before him, hemmed in by sheer cliffs that formed a natural bowl. How he was to get out of here and all the way to Midgar he had no…

Wait.

Vincent felt a grin- a real, true, honest, giddy grin stretching the corners of his mouth towards his ears.

‘ _ **Ready?**_ ’

‘ _Hell, yes._ ’

This time, there was no pain as wings erupted from his back, as his spine extended into a long tail. He crouched, feeling Chaos’ muscle bolstering his own, and leaped into the starry sky.


	53. Prodigal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sephiroth goes home.  
> Sort of.

The halls and seemingly every door in the Shinra building were guarded by Deepground troops. Most were of the human variety, but just as many of the four-legged creatures roamed freely. Even with the added complications, Sephiroth could have made his way to the 67th floor with his eyes closed. Scarlet’s borrowed keycard set off no alarms, and he had to do surprisingly little sneaking to get past the new guards. This time of night the lab was quiet, but one light was still on. Funny. This was the one place that Sephiroth would have done anything to avoid, yet here he was, breaking in.

“Sephiroth,” The Professor said without looking up. “I was wondering when you’d drop by.”

Sephiroth paused in mid-step, taken aback by the remark. He had to mentally shake himself in order to remember that the head of the Science Department was not, in fact, omniscient. He had probably triggered at least one silent alarm, and the dead Deepground soldiers would have caused the others to be on alert for intruders. Hojo had any number of reasons to expect an appearance.

“I’m here for the Zirconiade shard,” Sephiroth told him. It was only polite to try to resolve things without resorting to violence. Indeed, he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d be able to raise a hand against the old man or not. Sephiroth carried no microchip that he was aware of, but over twenty years of conditioning was difficult to overcome.

“Zirconiade?” the Professor echoed, looking up and adjusting his glasses. Eyes as green and piercing as Sephiroth’s stared from behind the little round lenses. “Not to inquire about your mother? Your brothers? Not even to demand answers? Really Sephiroth, one must have their priorities straight. Family comes first.”

The Professor had no idea about Scarlet and Palmer then, which was more reassuring than Sephiroth had expected. It was small proof that the old man was indeed mortal, and Sephiroth latched onto the knowledge with both hands.

“Where is it?” he insisted, trying to stay on topic.

“You know where it is,” the Professor said impatiently. “If you didn’t have at least a rough idea, you wouldn’t be here.” Chuckling to himself, the Professor shuffled out from behind the computer console. Perhaps it was the time he’d spent away from Shinra, or the old films coloring his perception, but Hojo looked old and frail to Sephiroth. Like Vincent, there was a leanness to his body that spoke more of starvation than age, the harsh fluorescent lights lending a greenish cast to his sallow skin. There was more gray in his que than Sephiroth remembered; he also did not recall the Professor’s stoop being quite so pronounced. There had been a time in his teens when subject and scientist had stood eye-to-eye, but with Hojo’s shoulders curled in a permanent hunch, Sephiroth was almost a full head taller.

“Tell me Sephiroth, have you enjoyed my little game?”

“Game?” Sephiroth echoed.

“Yes General, game. You solved the puzzle I left for you in Nibelheim, albeit only the one. I had intended the Turk to accompany you to Wutai. It wasn’t that I didn’t have every confidence in you of course, but I didn’t trust Hollander’s young brutes, or Heidigger’s commanding oafs to watch your back. I’m impressed the Turk was still alive. He was never a formal experiment, so I suppose he’s not a failure per se. Does he still possess the same charming disposition? Has he proven an adequate servant?”

The anger Sephiroth so desperately needed flared deep inside him. His head knew the truth, but his heart refused to accept it. Vincent had cared more about him in three months than Hojo had in nearly thirty years.

“He’s dead,” Sephiroth said flatly.

“Really?” Hojo blinked, surprised. “Are you sure about that? As I recall, he rarely stays that way for long.”

“The Zircon shard,” Sephiroth growled through clenched teeth. “Hand it over.”

The old man studied him for a moment, head tilted to one side. “Aren’t you interested in your heritage all? Perhaps the Turk spoiled the surprise. All the clues I left for you, and materia is all you can think about?”

Sephiroth took a deep breath and counted to ten. In Wutaian.

“I’m not here to play your games, old man, unless you want me to guess where you’ve hidden the Zircon shard.”

“Oh I keep it close at hand in a place no one would dare to look,” Hojo replied airily. “I thought you had more sense than that. Your mother and I had selected such a lovely young woman for you too. Aeris carries the last drops of the Cetra bloodline. I would have thought you would be happy to be reunited with your own kind. Why the Turk’s daughter? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Sephiroth ground his teeth, forcing past the knee-jerk reflex of anger and indignation on Elfe’s behalf. Wait. Elfe. Zirconiade. Hojo had treated Elfe when she was a child, had known her as she grew up. Perhaps he could work with that?

“I need the Zircon shard for Elfe,” Sephiroth confessed. “She remembers you. She told me you would know where it was. You saved her life once, don’t leave her to die now.”

“Die?” Hojo’s eyebrows rose, creating an accordion pleat of furrows in his forehead. “Is it as serious as that?”

“She has Geostigma,” Sephiroth told him, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Does she, now?” Hojo asked, a smirk pulling at his wasted cheek muscles. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”

Caught somewhere between shocked and insulted, Sephiroth tried vainly to keep back the heat rising in his cheeks. It must not have worked, for the Professor burst out laughing. It took all of Sephiroth’s restraint to keep from striking him down there and then.

“Well, grandchildren are grandchildren, I suppose,” Hojo mused once he had recovered. “I can’t say your mother and I aren’t disappointed. We did this for you, you know.”

Sephiroth felt his anger cool to confusion even as a distant alarm went off in the back of his head. “For me?” he repeated. “What have you ever done for me?”

Now it was Hojo’s turn to look insulted. “Did you even _look_ at the information I left for you?” he demanded. “Or have you been too busy cavorting with your terrorist sweetheart?”

“Wait- you planted the files?” Sephiroth asked, too bewildered to take offense.

“Preserved,” Hojo corrected. “You don’t think those simpleton Turks could have uncovered it themselves, do you? I couldn’t let Fin commit thirty years of research to the incinerator. I wanted you to understand how much time and effort went into you, to appreciate how valuable you are. You represent the life’s work of many people, Sephiroth, not just me. I wasn’t about to hand you over to that fool Hollander, or the abomination that is Deepground.”

Sephiroth blinked, struggling to process this pronouncement. The condescending, superior tone was the same as ever, but the words had been strangely weighted. Hojo frequently spoke in riddles, but this seemed at once too obtuse and too obvious.

“I don’t understand…” Such an admission had always prompted a lengthy lecture delivered in a pompous tone of voice. This time, it was exactly what Sephiroth wanted.

“You are firstborn,” Hojo began, sarcasm notably absent. “The first SOLDIER, the first son of the Ancient Jenova. I know it wasn’t easy, but I had to push you to do better, to _be_ better than the others. My success depended on yours. If you hadn’t surpassed expectations, you would have been taken away from me and given over to another project, and I could not allow that. I could not let you become someone else’s experiment.”

Hojo had come within arm’s length, peering up at him through his spectacles. Although his pupils were as round as any other human’s, the irises were the same piercing neon green as Sephiroth’s and glowing with makou. Unbidden, the images flashed through Sephiroth’s mind: the films of Hojo teaching him to walk, Hojo sobbing over Lucrecia’s inert body, Hojo charging into the observation tank unarmed to keep a Midgar Zolom from devouring him in a single gulp. Memory bank shaken, other instances fell onto the pile: Hojo placing his first _bokkan_ in his chubby, five-year-old hand, Hojo sitting by his little metal bed every time he opened his eyes as he suffered through his immunizations the hard way, the awkward pat on the shoulder and coerced promise to be careful before being shipped to Wutai, and lastly- one he had been sure he had imagined- the Professor’s eyes welling up behind his glasses as Sephiroth received his Generals’ star and over a dozen other medals.

“We did this for you,” Hojo repeated, removing his glasses, a lock of hair escaping with the motion and falling over one eye. “You are our firstborn, a prince among your people. You were made for greater things than your brothers, than your cousins.” Hojo’s words had taken on a surreal echoing quality, as if he were speaking in two voices at once. “You were born to lead,” Hojo went on, “to rule. You are both strong and just. This entire planet would bow happily before you, for the people love you. Now that you have returned to us, the usurper Shinra shall be cast down and the traitors silenced. This world is yours for the taking, our son. You have only to stretch out your hand and claim what is yours.”

Sephiroth’s eyes felt heavy, and his head as if it had been stuffed with cotton-wool. The discordant harmony of Hojo’s voice was giving him a headache, making it impossible to think.

“I can’t…” Sephiroth heard himself slur.

“Not alone, no,” Hojo said gently, reaching to cradle his cheek in one hand. Sephiroth squinted, willing himself to focus, but the harder he tried, the more the lab blurred and wavered like a mirage. “We will help you…”

Tired beyond words, Sephiroth felt his eyes drift closed and he leaned into Hojo’s hand. His _right_ hand. Panic shot up his spine as the needle pierced the skin of his neck, but Sephiroth’s leaden limbs would not respond. There was a rush of air as something whistled past his ear, the musical crash of shattering glass, and a heavy thud. Hojo’s supporting hand vanished and Sephiroth fell forward, collapsing onto his hands and knees. Like a dog shaking off water, he shook off the trance that had possessed him. The enraged screams echoing inside his skull and the shattered syringe lying in a puddle of gray-pink liquid that was rapidly oxidizing to black told him just how close a shave he’d had. Adrenaline surged through him, making him giddy, and he sat on the floor for a moment, trying to force himself to calm down. Only inches away, the Professor lay sprawled on his back, a surprised expression on his face and a hole in his forehead.

Someone had shot him.

Sephiroth tried to think, tried to move, but did not manage either. Jenova was still throwing a tantrum in the back of his head, making it even more difficult for his brain to process what his eyes were telling him: Professor Seiji Hojo had been shot. He was dead. He had taken a bullet to the head, yet Sephiroth could not believe it.

Not red, but a virulent green puddle was pooling around the Professor’s head. Apparently it had not been a trick of the light. As the fluid leaked away, a more natural pallor was creeping over the Professor’s cold face. Already his muscles were growing slack, the bemused expression melting into something that more closely resembled sleep, despite the half-lidded eyes. Every one of Vincent’s fifty-some years had shown during the rare moments he had spent asleep. The Professor, by contrast, seemed younger without the permanent scowl pulling his features toward the floor. Here was the face Sephiroth had seen in the films; the kind father doing his best to care for his son.

His son...

Losing Vincent had felt like losing a limb, the emotional wound still raw and bloody. The Professor was dead, but all Sephiroth felt was vaguely ill; too numb to truly process what had just happened. Indeed, only at that moment did it occur to him to wonder: who had fired the shot?

A step on the linoleum and a hand lifting him under the arm was all the warning he got. Sephiroth twisted and swung, his fist connecting with solid bone. Knuckles throbbing, he tore Masamune from her sheath and rounded on his attacker. She clattered to the floor as shock tore through him like a bullet at close range.

“ _Vincent???_ ”

Sephiroth stared, convinced he was hallucinating, though the pain in his hand was real enough. Just to make sure he wasn’t being haunted, he glanced at the Professor’s corpse which was lying reassuringly inert where it had fallen. Vincent, red cloak draping his long body, stood at a careful distance, massaging his jaw.

“Nice to see you too,” the Turk remarked.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Sephiroth demanded, hastily stooping to reclaim Masamune. “I thought you were _dead!_ ”

The last word had come out in a shout, the single syllable echoing loudly off the stainless steel and tile.

“I was,” Vincent shrugged, “but I still have things to do.”

Suddenly, Sephiroth remembered that he had things to do as well. Dropping to his knees, he shoved the Professor’s trouser leg up. As expected Hojo’s lower left leg had been replaced by a prosthetic. He had given a limb to protect his prodigy, but only moments ago had tried to inject Sephiroth with more Jenova. Shaking the memory off, Sephiroth examined the knee joint. Instead of a whole materia, a flat circle of steel was set into the power socket. Sephiroth unscrewed it and popped the top off with his thumb. Inside lay the fourth glittering shard of the Zirconiade materia. The sigh escaped on its own, some of the tension Sephiroth had been carrying departing with it. It returned with a surge of adrenaline as an alarm blared overhead. Across the room, the computer monitor flashed. Hojo must have engaged the intruder code earlier. If Deepground hadn’t known he was here before, they did now. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Sephiroth thought he could hear, even feel, the thunder of many feet pounding up the stairs. Hastily, he rummaged in Hojo’s pockets, automatically stuffing the contents into his own until he found what he was looking for: Hojo’s keycard.

“Did anyone come with you?” Sephiroth asked, feeling himself slide into General Mode. It was a relief to put off the tangle of emotions if only temporarily.

Vincent shook his head. “No.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here. Hold the hall. I’m going to slow them down a little.

Nodding, Vincent vanished in a ripple of red fabric. Going over to the computer console, Sephiroth swiped Hojo’s keycard and entered the code to unlock all the enclosures for the various specimens. Just to make sure the Deepground mutants were at a disadvantage, he chanted into one hand and tossed a bolt of electricity at the control panel which obligingly sparked, fizzed, and burst into flames. A second alarm and the overhead sprinklers went off a moment later. Deciding he’d rather not fight in an enclosed space that was also on fire, Sephiroth hurried into the hall. He could hear the rapid approach of many feet as they pounded ever nearer.

“Time to go,” he remarked, motioning for Vincent to follow him.

There was, quite literally, nowhere to go but up. Shouts and screams from the few scientists working late, but Sephiroth ignored them. If they couldn’t deal with their own experiments, then they should have chosen a different line of work. The stairwell vibrated with so many troops stampeding upward. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he quickened his pace upon seeing mob of shadows charging up the wall toward them. A shot rang out, bouncing sharply off the metal walls of the stairwell. Vincent put his hand to his hip, long fingers curling around the grip of his pistol as he ran, but he did not return fire. It was pointless in such a close space. With their long legs, both of them took the stairs two at a time past the atrium and down the hall, into President Shinra’s office.

No sooner had they locked the door behind them than it exploded inward, a mass of gray-clad bodies swarming through it like angry wasps. Automatically, Sephiroth reached for Masamune, but did not manage to pull her from her sheath. Vincent had seized him by the middle, yanking him off his feet, across the room, and through one of the plate glass windows in a shower of razor-sharp fragments.

Gunfire erupted above them and Sephiroth looked up, the wind shrieking in his ears as he and Vincent fell. More troops- these with insect and bat wings- were leaping from the window and into the cold night air. He and Vincent only had one wing between them, and the only way out was down. Sephiroth tried to gather his feet under him, to jump, to reach out and drive Masamune into the building wall to stop their fall, but Vincent held him fast.

“Let go!” Sephiroth shouted over the wind.

Eyes afire, Vincent just grinned, the smile twisted and feral. “Hold on.”

The folds of his cloak snapped loudly as they plummeted toward the distant streets below. At once the red fabric condensed and collected, suddenly springing up and out in a familiar-looking pair of red leather wings. Sephiroth jerked in Vincent’s arms at the sudden reversal of trajectory. Vincent had turned their descent into a swoop, the momentum and the currents of warm city air carrying them upwards just as sharply and swiftly as they had been falling.

“Alleyoop,” Vincent remarked, swinging Sephiroth up and into the air like a trapeze artist. Whipping Masamune from her sheath, Sephiroth felt his own wing snap open, twisting his path into a spiral as he soared toward the airborne Deepground troops.

Evidently they hadn’t been expecting that. The nearest soldier had the bladelike wings of a dragonfly, and Sephiroth knocked the gun from its hands on his way past. The soldier followed him, buzzing angrily, but Sephiroth engaged it calmly, leaping off its shoulders toward a new target even has he drove Masamune into the creature’s spine. It shrieked and fell, crushing two of its fellows who were not quick enough to get out of the way. About then the rest of them opened fire. Bullets flashed past, ricocheting off of Masamune’s curved edge in a shower of red and gold sparks. Below the machine gun fire, Sephiroth heard the deeper, more deliberate discharge of a single shot rifle. Vincent, wings beating the night air, had risen to help him, picking off the flying soldiers with deadly accuracy.

It was harder than he’d thought to repress the instinct to spread his wing, to leap into thin air and try to fly. However, one wing alone was useless. Sephiroth had to remind himself to either keep it folded close to his body, or to angle it out and back like the dorsal fin of a shark where it would steady his trajectory instead of sending him wheeling into a spiral. Otherwise, a fight above the ground was not so different as one at street level. The flying soldiers were a new challenge, and Sephiroth found himself glad to have something to hit. More and more appeared, making it easier to leap from one to another even as he cut them down, but the object was not to beat Shinra here and now.

“Sephiroth!” Vincent called, waving at him. “Time to go!”

Rather than quibble over who was giving the orders, Sephiroth recognized the sense in Vincent’s words. The swarm of Deepground soldiers was growing ever thicker, and he needed to get the Zirconiade shards back to Elfe as soon as possible. Taking a last leap, Sephiroth gave in and dived, spreading his wing. He tried to beat it against the wind, to flap, to fly, but one was not enough. Instead, he plummeted in an awkward spiral toward Vincent. The older man caught his hands in his, swinging him up and over, onto his back. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Vincent, but the older man’s lanky body felt too light and too narrow to support a full-grown SOLDIER. More gunfire echoed and Sephiroth ducked low against Vincent’s back as bullets whizzed past overhead.

“Here,” Vincent shouted over the wind. “Don’t drop it!”

Pulling the bandolier from around his neck, Vincent tossed him an old fashioned rifle. Normally Death Penalty models were only found in the hands of antiquarians and collectors. However, now was not the time to admire antique firearms. Looping the band over the shoulder without the wing, Sephiroth twisted and opened fire. It had been a long time since he’d had a gun in his hands, and though the muscle memory was there, it was still a bit awkward trying to trace a target that kept darting back and forth. The fact that he was seated astride someone else’s back with the icy wind blowing his hair into his eyes did not help. He fired off one round, two, three, eventually emptying the rifle’s magazine. He hadn’t wasted a single bullet, and had hit every target, but he had to admit he was not the sureshot that Vincent was.

The swarm was gaining on them, baring down and humming with rage and gunfire. Swinging the rifle out of the way onto his own back, Sephiroth lay flat against Vincent’s back.

“Any other ideas?” he shouted.

“Yes, actually,” Vincent replied, grabbing Sephiroth’s wrists in a surprisingly strong grip. “Hold on.”

It wasn’t much of a warning. Abruptly, Vincent dove for the city streets miles below. It took all of Sephiroth’s willpower not to scream as sky and then skyscrapers rushed past, the swarm right on their tail. At the last minute, Vincent arced upward, pulling out of the dive and ascending just as sharply as he’d fallen. Most of the swarm did not react as quickly, several splattering against the pavement like insects against a windshield. Sephiroth hung on, not caring if he choked Vincent as he struggled to maintain his grip. Automatically he opened his wing, attempting to control their flight.

“Tuck that thing in!” Vincent snapped as they careened off course toward a building. Sephiroth scrunched the wing as close to his body as he could manage and at once their path straightened, though he was certain one of Vincent’s shirt buttons had been scraped off by a window ledge as they zoomed upward, close enough to look into the windows of some rather surprised citizens.

The swarm had thinned a bit, but there were still too many of them, and they were still far too close. Vincent banked and swerved, leading them on a dizzying chase through the tall buildings of the city that rivaled the path of a rollercoaster. Sephiroth didn’t mind so much when he was his own pilot, leaping from one surface to another in bounds so great that it felt like flying. Hanging on for dear life to another body that twisted and turned amid an invisible highway of updrafts and air currents was something else entirely. 

It took Sephiroth a moment to realize that the sharp wind had lost the bitter stink of sour makou, and that it had- if possible- become even colder. They had left the maze of buildings behind, and now Vincent led the swarm on a merry chase through clouds made of water vapor, not smog. Although the city still stretched out below them, so far down that it looked like no more than a model made from toys, they were rapidly approaching the ocean. Behind them, the swarm kept up the pace as well as a steady stream of gunfire. There were fewer of them- several having met their end on the pavement or against the side of a building- but still too many for just the two of them to contend with.

“Think we can lose them?” Sephiroth hollered as he ducked another barrage.

“Yep,” was Vincent’s short reply. This time, however, Sephiroth was ready. Locking his arms around Vincent’s neck, he pinched his sides with his knees and did his best to follow the movements of Vincent’s body with his own. He hadn’t realized until that moment that Vincent had been toying with the swarm. The wings on either side of him cracked against the cold air as they flapped, propelling them forward at such a speed that Sephiroth found it hard to keep his eyes open. The swarm kept pace, buzzing after them even faster. Squinting against the wind, Sephiroth chanced a glance straight down. They were directly over the shoreline. Vincent flapped harder, the tight cords of his muscles twisting in a frenzied rhythm beneath Sephiroth’s chest. Sephiroth wished he could help, could lend Vincent his strength, but all he could do was hold on and try not to be any more of a burden than he currently was.

They were over open ocean now, the distant lights of ships glittering against the dark water far below. Sephiroth had a good guess as to what Vincent had in mind. The swarm had proved determined, keeping steadily on their tail without deviation. None of them had tried to approach from any other direction, and those that hadn’t been splattered had pursued them with a single-mindedness that was very reminiscent of an insect answering to a larger intellect. If they’d fallen for the same feint once, they might do so again. Except…

“When I say ‘jump’, I need you to jump,” Vincent shouted back to him. “You got me?”

“Roger,” Sephiroth shouted back, and braced himself.

Vincent shut his wings with a snap, folding them close to his body and plummeting like a stone. The swarm followed his free fall dive toward the ocean. Sephiroth clung desperately to Vincent’s neck, the older man’s hands still gripping his wrists in an iron grip. The sudden fall made Sephiroth feel as if he’d left his stomach in the clouds. Gravity seemed to be pulling him _up_ , pulling him away from Vincent, as if the earth no longer wanted him. Masamune rattled in her sheath, the leather case clattering in the wind against Vincent’s rifle. The ocean was approaching with alarming speed, and Sephiroth tried to pull his feet under him, to find purchase on Vincent’s narrow back.

“Ready?” Vincent screamed over the wind, not turning his head to look back. “ _JUMP!_ ”

Sephiroth jumped, allowing the wind to pull him up and away from the planet trying to push him away. Again he fought the urge to open his wing, to use the updraft to carry himself higher. Instead he watched, unbreathing, as Vincent dove toward the sea. Sephiroth couldn’t help wondering if Vincent actually planned to dive head-first into the black water? Closer, closer, so close it must surely be too late… A spray of foam rushed up in Vincent’s wake as he skimmed over the surface of the waves, the swarm plunging into the water after him like so many cannon balls. His great wings brushed the surface of the water, sending up a shower of droplets. A wild whoop rang out and it took Sephiroth a moment to realize it was Vincent. Laughing.

Gravity had only just reclaimed Sephiroth as Vincent pumped the air with his wings, ascending rapidly. Again he caught him by the hands and swung him onto his back. A manic grin was plastered across Vincent’s pale face, the expression so alien that Sephiroth wasn’t sure if he ought to be worried or not. His chest heaved with exertion, but he gave another crow of delight that echoed bizarrely over the water. Twisting to look over his shoulder, Sephiroth looked back at Midgar, the city little more than a vast circle of lights in the darkness. Palmer’s battered old station wagon was down there somewhere, miles below amid the Plate traffic, taking his brothers to safety and freedom. The swarm was gone. They had won. There was no reason not to be happy.

Except all he felt was tired and hungry. Energy and adrenaline had deserted him, and he flopped exhausted against Vincent’s back. The whip of the wind and the bite of the cold stung his eyes, making them water. He certainly wasn’t crying. At the moment, he felt as cold and empty as the night sky. Rather than try to sort it all out, he concentrated on the red leather wings beating the frigid air on either side of him, and the long, narrow body they were attached to. Vincent’s bones felt bird-brittle despite the horns cresting his head and the barbed dragon’s tail trailing behind.

“Why?” he asked quietly, his mouth near enough to Vincent’s ear that he did not need to shout. “Why did you shoot him? Was it because you owed him a bullet?”

Sephiroth could not tell if he felt angry or just hurt, didn’t know why it bothered him at all. All things considered, the entire operation had gone off beautifully. His brothers were free and safe in Palmer’s care, both the missing Zirconiade shards were tucked safely in his pockets, the Professor was dead, and Vincent was alive. He should be happy, but instead he felt defeated. 

It took several minutes before Vincent answered, his words carried back to Sephiroth on the bitter wind. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to. I didn’t want you to have to carry that.”

The gentle answer cut deep, and Sephiroth swallowed hard on the tangle of words that had died in his throat. Instinctively, he tightened his arms around Vincent’s neck. The older man patted his hand gently and adjusted his grip on Sephiroth’s wrists.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

As much as he would have liked to take Vincent up on his offer, sleep was as far off as the shores of the Old Continent. Ducking his head against the against the cold, Sephiroth concentrated on the sound of the wind singing past and tried not to think.


	54. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin to look up.  
> Zirconiade and Veld both discuss a few things with Sephiroth, and Hojo continues to make a nuisance of himself even from beyond the grave.

The flight to Corel would linger in Sephiroth’s memory as a surreal blur of red and black- the black of the night sky, and the red of bat’s wings spread on either side of him. When at last they landed just outside the town limits, Vincent collapsed to his hands and knees, practically dumping Sephiroth off his back. Sephiroth waited while Vincent’s wings melted back into the red wool drape of his cloak, the tail and horns shrinking until they vanished. He gave the older man a few minutes to recover, watching him shiver with fading adrenaline, cold, or pain- possibly all three- before offering a hand and helping him to his feet.

Neither said a word as they walked, shoulder to shoulder beyond the trees and past sleeping cottages. The sun was just climbing over the peaks of the mountains when they reached the hospital. Sephiroth paused at the door, uncertain, and glanced at Vincent who looked back at him, equally awkward. Vincent rarely had words at the best of times, and the last twenty-four hours had left Sephiroth not knowing what to think or feel. He could only imagine what was going through Vincent’s mind. Perhaps because he did not know what to say, the older man reached and patted Sephiroth on the shoulder. The gesture was part apology, part assurance, part encouragement. It was enough. Taking a deep breath, Sephiroth pushed the door open.

No one tried to stop them as they made their way down to the quarantined ward. Although he followed him through the doors, Vincent hung back, stopping halfway down the ward while Sephiroth walked on toward the curtain surrounding Elfe’s bed. There was no way to knock on a curtain. While his footsteps had been clearly audible, Sephiroth couldn’t help feeling that he ought to announce himself first.

“Excuse me?” he asked softly, his voice horribly loud in the silence.

Veld drew back the curtain and stood facing him, barring his way.

“Have you got it?” he asked. Sephiroth tended to hide his feelings, but if he’d been stiff and professional before, he was positively formal now. If his pain could be measured by the brave front he presented, then right now the kid had to be dying inside.

Sephiroth nodded. “Yes.”

Breathing what was surely a long-held sigh of relief, Veld stepped back, allowing Sephiroth to pass. He did not enter like a victorious warrior. He had won every battle, stolen back the treasure, but there was no smile on his face, no light in his eyes. 

Elfe lay still on the little hospital cot, her right arm even more heavily bandaged. The muddy splotches indicative of Geostigma had crept up her throat and onto her face, across her shoulders and onto her other arm. The waxen pallor of her skin contrasted sharply with the brown-black lesions. Approaching her bedside, Sephiroth hoped he was not too late.

“Elfe?” he asked, but she did not stir.

“She’s been like that since yesterday,” Veld told him, exhaustion clear in his tone. “We can’t get her to wake up.” He had spots too, Sephiroth noticed. The old Turk’s remaining hand was dotted with muddy lesions, and one or two showed above his collar.

Carefully, Sephiroth took her right hand in his and began to unwind the bandages. A stench like sour makou and dark fluid like motor oil oozed from beneath the cloth as he unwrapped her hand. The last strip of linen took a layer of skin with it, and Sephiroth swallowed hard, fighting not to gag. Her fingers looked as if they’d been flayed, raw muscle showing through where skin had completely melted away. Jenova seemed determined to see that Elfe never lifted a sword again. Knowing Elfe, she would simply learn to use her left hand. However, Sephiroth hoped she would never have to. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the materia shards and folded her ruined fingers around them.

Elfe’s lips parted as she sucked in a deep breath. Veld leaned forward, hand outstretched to smooth back her hair, when a blinding light flashed.

It was as if someone had squeezed the entire sun into the small, curtained space. The light did more than dazzle Sephiroth’s eyes, it physically _hurt_ , it was so bright, so radiant, so powerful. In the back of his head, Jenova screamed, and Sephiroth clutched his head, crumbling to his knees.

“ _ **Peace,**_ ” a voice cut through the screams. Sephiroth had not realized until that moment that he’d been crying out in agony. A hand- burning with light, searing with purity- touched his head and Jenova’s screams exploded into silence. Collapsing onto hands and knees, Sephiroth gasped, trying to breathe through the lingering pain brought by the touch.

“ _ **Rise, Crisis’ Son.**_ ”

It was not easy to do, but the brilliance had dimmed somewhat, and his head no longer rang with Jenova’s screams. Gathering wits and limbs, Sephiroth hauled himself up so that he knelt on one knee. He blinked, looking up at the tall woman before him. This had to be Zirconiade.

Her attire reminded him of a fairytale knight’s armor, but the plate mail looked as if it had been cast in crystal and chased in silver. The many facets of her armor shone with a radiance all their own, reflecting the brilliant light of the creature who wore them. Zirconiade herself seemed to be made of light; the sun and stars in human form. The pinions of her wings further reflected her brilliance, each bladelike feather shining with a rainbow of colors. At her hip hung an enormous two-handed sword; a heroic replica of Elfe’s own blade. Her blue eyes, bright and wise and ancient, seemed eerily familiar as she looked down, scrutinizing him.

“ _ **You have done us a great service, Crisis’ Son. For that, you have our gratitude.**_ ”

“I was happy to do it, My Lady,” Sephiroth replied lowering his eyes to study the floor. Chaos had been bad enough, but Zircon was terrifying in her own right. “No thanks are necessary. It was my fault Elfe became ill in the first place.”

“ _ **You are not responsible for your mother’s sins.**_ ”

That made him look up.

“ _ **You have proven yourself to be most unlike her. Although she may work her will upon you, there is no deceit in you. If you can rid Gaia of your mother’s curse, I believe you may be worthy.**_ ”

“Worthy?” Sephiroth echoed.

Zirconiade smiled. “ _ **To ply your suit to my daughter. She has confessed a fondness for you. I begin to see why she favors you.**_ ”

To his chagrin, heat had begun to collect under his collar. “Thank you, My Lady,” he replied awkwardly. “Your consent means much to me, but I am poisonous to you both. So long as I carry Jenova’s cells, I am not safe. I cannot ask this of Elfe, but I would ask it of you.”

“ _ **Speak.**_ ”

“When the time comes, if I lose my senses, I ask that you would strike me down. I do not wish to harm those I love. Do not hesitate. Kill me.”

Zircon seemed surprised at his request, but nodded, making a small bow of the gesture. “ _ **I expected no less of such a warrior. I will do as you ask, though it brings me no joy.**_ ”

“Thank you, My Lady.”

“ _ **Now my daughter wishes to offer her thanks as well.**_ ”

The figure of starlight and crystal drifted away like falling snow, leaving Elfe still lying silently on the bed. Veld completed his motion of reaching to smooth back his daughter's hair and kiss her forehead as if a Force of Nature had not just held a brief conversation less than ten steps away. Perhaps he had not seen her? Perhaps she had only appeared to Sephiroth himself?

The ugly splotches from Geostigma had vanished, though Elfe’s features were still a bit drawn from her illness. Beneath the soiled bandages, the clean, unblemished skin of her arm made a marked contrast. The back of her right hand was now taken up by a faceted diamond set in a tattoo of gold and silver runes. No woman have ever worn a more exquisite ring. Without thinking, Sephiroth reached to touch it. Veld looked at him, and Sephiroth hastily withdrew his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, retreating a step. “I’ll go. She needs to rest.”

“Would...would you stay with her?” Veld stammered, looking as if it had taken cost him something to speak the words. Sephiroth blinked.

“I need to be treated myself, now that she’s better,” Veld explained. “Would you keep her safe for me till I get back?”

Not knowing what to say, Sephiroth nodded. He ought to thank the old Turk, but as Veld turned to duck behind the curtain, Sephiroth blurted out: “Vincent’s alive.”

Veld turned and blinked, pausing in mid step.

“Vincent’s alive,” Sephiroth repeated. “He...he rescued me.”

Veld smiled, the expression softening the stern lines and creases in his face into kindly crinkles around his eyes and mouth. “He’ll do that,” he remarked, and left.

For a long moment Sephiroth stood watching the swaying curtain as it gradually lost momentum. Veld would not have trusted just anyone to stand vigil over his daughter. Instead of feeling privileged, however, Sephiroth felt as if the world had been knocked off its axis and was now spinning at a radically different speed and angle than it had been. Then again, nothing had stood solid in his mind since he’d gotten his wing. Maybe it was only himself that was off-center?

Elfe lay quiet on the cot, her chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths beneath the blankets. The sodden bandages still wound around her arm were staining her skin and the bedclothes with muddy, brown-black ooze. Fetching a little kidney-shaped bowl from the bedside table, Sephiroth removed his gloves and lifted her hand with his, peeling off the soiled gauze and linen with the other. He was just wiping away the last greasy smears with a clean towel when he felt her fingers tighten around his. At once he looked up. Elfe looked back at him, her eyes a deeper, wiser, more dazzling blue than they had been before, and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome,” Sephiroth replied automatically. Hurriedly, he set the basin of putrid bandages aside. Not knowing what else to say, he folded his other hand around hers, the facets of the diamond cool and angular beneath his palm.

“Where did you find it?” Elfe asked.

“Professor Hojo.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Did he give it to you?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “No.”

“...is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Her face fell. She had happy memories of the man he’d hated for so long; it seemed everyone except Vincent did. At first Sephiroth had smoldered with anger, but his rage had burnt out, leaving a numbness that had only just begun to thaw.

“...did you kill him?” she asked quietly, looking up to meet his eyes.

For years he had fantasized about strangling the speeches from the old man’s throat, of running him through with Masamune’s long blade, of throwing him in with his beloved specimens, or subjecting him to his own experiments. Now...he knew the reason for what had felt like cruelty; the logic behind the distance and the apathy Hojo had been forced to present. It did not make it any easier except for this one thing:

“No,” he told her, hating how grateful he was to Vincent in that moment. The older man had spared him not just the guilt of patricide, but the resentment Elfe would have no doubt felt toward him for murdering what to her had been a beloved teacher and father figure. At least _somebody_ had positive memories of the man. For the first time, Sephiroth allowed himself to admit that he wished he had more of them himself. It had not been all bad, which made it even harder. He had hated the Professor for so long, would have been perfectly content to go on hating him, but now, maddeningly, found he couldn’t. Instead, all he felt was nauseating mix of grief and anger.

Gently tugging on his hand, Elfe pulled Sephiroth over to sit on the edge of the bed. Shifting her grip, she laced the fingers of her left hand through his right, palm-to-palm, laying the hand that bore the jewel-like materia overtop. Almost reflexively, Sephiroth curled his fingers around hers. Without his gloves, he could feel the warmth of her skin, the fine callouses on her fingers; her hands delicate yet strong. Unable to look at her, he bent his head and closed his eyes, trying fruitlessly to sort through the storm of emotions churning sickeningly in his stomach. It was not until he felt a weight against his arm, a warmth at his side, that he looked up. Elfe had left the comfort of her pillows to sit next to him. Seated, she was closer to him in height, the top of her head just level with his nose.

“I was little when my mother died,” she began quietly. “I don’t remember much about her. Just...that she was there, and that she loved me, and then she was gone. The same was true of my father. Until a couple of months ago, I thought both my parents had died when I was three.”

Sephiroth sat quietly, listening. Usually when Elfe spoke, it was to bark orders, or to deliver a razor-edged remark in a verbal duel. It occurred to him that he had not heard her speak like this before, the low notes of her voice pleasant and soothing.

“Not all the orphanages in Midgar are bad,” she went on. “Shinra took care of us. I remember receiving Zirconiade from Professor Hojo. I remember him coming to check on me and some of the other children when we were still at Old Midgar General. I remember him doing the same once we had moved to the group home. I also remember him in the lab after I became part of the security team. I always… I always thought he was a sweet old man. A little forgetful; not the most observant guy around when it came to stuff that wasn’t under a microscope. He could be grouchy, but he was never unkind. I don’t remember ever getting a lollipop from him but…” here she trailed off, shrugged, and leaned against him more heavily in a sort of embraceless hug.

“I wish I could remember him the way you do,” Sephiroth said softly. “He never showed me kindness the way he did to you. Only Professor Gast and Aunt Ifalna ever loved me in a way I understood. I was five when they left. I did not see them again.”

She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb and looked up at him, expression quiet and sad.

“What happened to them?”

“They died.”

A thunderous silence followed. Elfe said nothing, but gently extricated her left hand from his so that she could loop her arm around his waist. He stiffened briefly at the touch, startled and unused to it. She looked up, afraid she’d overstepped her bounds. In answer, he closed his hand more firmly around hers and carefully leaned against her a little in turn.

“I’m sorry,” she told him quietly.

Veld and others had said that about his mother. The phrase had been used toward him when Angeal and Genesis had gone. At the time, he had not understood why anyone should need to apologize. They had not caused the deaths themselves. Those who had died were not necessarily part of their family or their circle of friends. Elfe’s small condolence, however, made sense in his ears. She was sorry. Grieved. Not just because she had been fond of the Professor in a way he could never have been, but because Sephiroth had never had a chance to know him as she had. Like Elfe, he had lost his parents at a young age. The man who had reared and trained him might have had his father’s face, but it had been Jenova puppeting him almost the entire time. Again he’d been tricked, duped, and he could not decide if it was worse to deceive a child who had no way to know any better, or an adult who ought to know, but didn’t?

A knot had formed in his throat, blocking any further attempts at communication, and so he shook his head. She need not feel sad on his behalf. Except, he realized, she wasn’t. She was sad herself, mourning a man who had been kind to her when she needed it most. Sephiroth envied her the unblemished memories, her ability to think of the Professor fondly. He would have been content to be angry, or better still, indifferent, but the knots in his throat, in his stomach, were made of such a tangle of emotions that he could not sort them out.

“I…,” he began, voice quavering so dangerously that he had to stop and try to swallow back the lump in his throat. “I was his life’s work,” Sephiroth told her, repeating Hojo’s own words. “I was important to him but, but only as a project, as a specimen. I didn’t think I mattered to him as anything more than an experiment. Some of the things he put me through...”

There were so many instances concerning Hojo, both good and bad, lingering in Sephiroth’s memory. If he were honest, there had been a time when he had wanted the Professor to be proud of him, to like him, to smile and hug him, or to pat him on the back and tell him that he had done well, the way that Professor Gast had done. If Hojo had let him, Sephiroth would have loved him, but Hojo had never given him the chance. Perhaps it had been easier to keep him at arm’s length, to bury any feelings he might have had so that he could do what needed to be done in order to keep his son out of Deepground.

His son…

The knowledge was no less repugnant than it had been back in the crypt of the Shinra Mansion. He had nearly cut Vincent in two for suggesting such a thing. Now, only months later, after reading the files, watching the videos, after speaking with Vincent and with the Professor himself, Sephiroth found he could no longer ignore the truth.

“Did you know he was my father?”

Saying the words felt like vomiting, and he could not decide if he hated himself more or less for admitting the truth. Elfe blinked. He had been expecting a more pronounced reaction, but she was watching him as much as he was watching her.

“...did you know?” she asked.

For some reason, that was the last thing he had expected her to say. Sephiroth shook his head. “No. Not until a few months ago.”

Her expression softened; not sad so much as tender. “And all this time...years and years...you thought you were alone.”

Sephiroth nodded. Learning about his mother had brought a melancholy sort of reassurance; proof that he was human and that someone somewhere had loved him, no matter how briefly. Learning that Hojo had contributed the other half of his DNA, however… He had wanted so badly for it to have been Vincent; someone like Veld who through no fault of their own had been kept from his child against his will. Someone he could forgive, someone he could get to know, someone to fill the ever widening hole made by the deaths of the handful of people he cared about, and who had cared about him. Professor Gast, Aunt Ifalna, his mother Lucrecia, Angeal, until a few months ago Genesis, even Vincent himself...

“Hey…” Reaching, touched his face, smearing wetness across his cheek with her thumb. He had not realized until that moment that he was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, wiping at his eyes with one hand. “I’m alright...”

“No you’re not,” she said gently, and pulled him close in a hug. That undid him. Sephiroth tried desperately to breathe through it, to force past it, to choke down emotions long ignored. He had not had time to process it then, and he did not have time now. Except now that he’d begun, he couldn’t stop. Every unshed tear he’d had to hold back since Professor Gast and Aunt Ifalna had left poured down his cheeks. He could feel himself shaking in her arms, heard his own ragged sobs and wished he could disappear.

“I’m sorry…” managed between too-deep breaths. “I’m sorry I…”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, gathering him close and running one hand over his hair. Normally anyone who tried to touch his hair unauthorized would find themselves in danger of losing the offending hand, but he couldn’t help leaning into her touch despite the extra tears it brought. “It’s lonely at the top, isn’t it?”

Unable to answer in words, he nodded.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Elfe told him quietly. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be sad. Nobody’s going to think any less of you.”

Finally managing some semblance of control, Sephiroth sniffed and mopped his face with his sleeve. It didn’t help much. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m okay.”

She gave him a reproachful look.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, “but I’ll be alright. I can manage.”

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know,” she reminded him, letting him go but keeping hold of one hand. “You’ve got a lot of good people around you. Rhapsodos, Fair, hell even daddy would listen if you needed to talk. He actually really likes you, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Despite himself, Sephiroth smiled. “You know, I never thought I’d cry over the old bastard.”

“Was it just for him?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “No.”

Only a fraction of his tears had been for the Professor, but Sephiroth would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that losing the old man had not hurt in a strange, perverted, backwards sort of way. It was too much to sort out right now, so he set the emotional tangle aside for later, promising himself he would not let it sit so long this time.

“Veld will be back soon,” Sephiroth said, standing and releasing her hand with the greatest reluctance. “I should go.”

“You can fill me in later,” Elfe told him. “We’ve still got an alien parasite to vanquish and a hostile takeover to assist with.”

“And a lot of makou reactors to replace,” he added.

It was Elfe’s turn to grin. “Right.”

 

\--

 

Sephiroth found Veld and Vincent talking quietly at the end of the ward. Veld looked better, if in a profoundly sleep-deprived way, his spots already beginning to fade. Both fell silent and looked over as he approached.

“She alright?” Veld asked.

“Yes,” Sephiroth told him with a nod. “Go and see her, but get some rest yourself.”

Veld smirked and gave him an amused mock-salute, and a wry “Yessir,” before down the ward and ducking behind the yellow curtain. That left Sephiroth alone with Vincent- whom he was not ready to talk to just yet. The Professor’s had been the second life Vincent had taken in order to prevent harm to someone he cared about. Sephiroth had spent ten years at war, and as many training to be a SOLDIER. He knew what it was to kill, but he’d been bred to confront the enemy head-on at the front of a legion of infantry. Vincent was a sniper, trained to kill anonymously from a distance. Fuhito might not have deserved death, but if Vincent had not put a bullet through the Professor’s head, Sephiroth did not like to think what might have happened. He couldn’t decide if he felt cheated, or grateful that Vincent had taken it upon himself to put a permanent end to Hojo’s machinations.

Vincent only briefly met Sephiroth’s eyes, his usually neutral expression carrying an uncertain slant behind his high collar. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, but had no more success than the first time.

“I’m sorry…” he managed at last. Sephiroth nodded, feeling the weight of the words. Vincent _was_ sorry, though whether it was for shooting the Professor, or for vanishing and allowing everyone to believe him dead for weeks on end, or just the situation in general, was difficult to discern. Perhaps all of it, perhaps none of it.

It took him a moment to realize Vincent had extended a hand to shake in truce. Sephiroth eyed it for a moment, taking in the calloused fingers extending through the cut-off glove, the still-fading scars on the forearm from the last time Vincent had raked himself just to make sure that he wasn’t imagining everything around him. Not so long ago, Sephiroth had thought he would never see the older man again. Resilient as Vincent might be, it wasn’t worth it to stay angry with him. Taking Vincent’s hand, he shook it firmly. Behind his collar, Vincent smiled- an actual, honest-to-Alexander smile that for once did not look as if it had cost him part of his soul to force into place. Deciding to hell with it, Sephiroth pulled him into a hug. After half a beat, Vincent’s arms folded around him in turn.

“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Vincent said quietly.

“I know,” Sephiroth replied. He hung on for a moment more before stepping back.

“Do _not_ do that again,” Sephiroth said sternly. “No more of your kamikaze heroics. You are _not_ allowed to die on me, do you understand?”

Vincent nodded.

“Good. Go make sure Veld’s settled,” Sephiroth instructed. Vincent would probably have done so anyway, but he was hoping the veteran Turks would strong-arm one another into taking a break.

“I will,” Vincent agreed. “You should get some rest yourself.”

“I will,” Sephiroth promised, and turned to do just that.

 

\--

 

Sephiroth could have gone to the crowded room that he’d been sharing with Zack and two other officers at the local inn, but most of his things had been transferred to the hospital ward and were probably still there. Besides, he wanted to look in on Genesis.

In the main corridor, beyond the decontamination booth, the hospital had awoken. The day staff were coming and going, and the morning sun shone brightly through the old-fashioned windows. With any luck, Genesis would be up. Asleep or awake, he would almost certainly require a fresh blood transfusion.

Genesis was indeed awake. The curtain had been drawn around his bed; a small pair of dirty white sneakers visible below it. Shalua must be changing the dressing on his shoulder. Sephiroth waited until she was through, standing silently until she emerged and pushed the curtain back.

“Oh!” she jumped upon seeing him. “General Sephiroth. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“How’s Colonel Rhapsodos?” he asked.

“I’m fine!” Genesis said loudly from somewhere behind the half-pulled curtain. “One of you clear me for duty before I take root to this bed!”

“He sounds like he’s feeling better,” Sephiroth remarked, smiling despite himself. Strangely, Shalua blushed.

“Yeah, he’s getting there,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose you’d be up for donating a bit more blood?”

Sephiroth nodded. “Of course.”

“Okay, I’ll come back later,” she agreed, and left.

Ducking around the curtain revealed Genesis freshly-bandaged, dressed, save for his coat, and sitting up, balancing a breakfast tray on his lap. He might be feeling better, but if anything, he looked worse. Like Vincent and Hojo, he was beginning to look starved despite the rest and care he’d been receiving. The thought of losing him again- permanently this time- was too much for Sephiroth and he sat down heavily on his own cot.

“Mission accomplished?” Genesis asked. Sephiroth nodded, and rubbed his face with both hands before replying.

“Yes.”

“Elfe’s alright, then?”

“Yeah.”

“...you don’t seem very happy.”

Sephiroth allowed a sigh to escape through his nose. It was all so damnably complicated. How could he explain what he barely understood himself?

“Can I fill you in later?” he asked wearily.

Genesis eyed him briefly, and awkwardly lifted his bowl of porridge in one hand.

“Here,” he said, crossing the few inches of floor between the cots and pushing the bowl into Sephiroth’s hands, “you need this more than I do.”

Ordinarily, Sephiroth would have argued the point, but he was too hungry and exhausted to care. It felt as if he’d only taken three or four bites before he was scraping the empty bottom of the bowl. Genesis took it from him and set it aside. With the edge of his hunger blunted, Sephiroth only now realized how heavy his eyelids had become. He was a SOLDIER, he could stay up for days at a time before sleep-deprivation became a concern, but the mission was over, and he could rest now. The last time he’d even attempted to sleep was down in the makou aquifer and he’d been too jittery to manage more than an hour or two here and there. That had been more than two days ago.

“C’mon, nap time for you,” Genesis said, gently pushing him down onto the mattress. Sephiroth thought about protesting that he still had his boots on, that he hadn’t even had a chance to bathe or change, but decided he didn’t care. His wing made settling a bit awkward, and he shifted so that he lay slightly on one side and wrapped his arms around himself as if were cold. Sephiroth looked up as the springs creaked and the mattress slanted. Genesis sat perched on the edge of the bed, watching him.

They’d had to share a tent on multiple occasions in Wutai; Angeal, Genesis, and himself. Sephiroth had always slept in between Angeal and Genesis; partly because he was the tallest, but mostly because if he didn’t, they’d spend the whole night elbowing and kicking each other. Genesis tended to move in his sleep, throwing arms and legs over whoever happened to be next to him. Angeal, in contrast, tended to tuck his hands under his elbows, cross his ankles, and lie perfectly still. He did not appreciate being clobbered in his sleep. Sephiroth had teased Genesis about being something of an octopus while he slept, but honestly hadn’t minded. They had been kids then, still teenagers and a little bit frightened and a little bit homesick. Angeal and Genesis had watched him settle in with his arms around himself as if he couldn’t get warm even in the tropical heat of a Wutaian summer and asked if he were cold? He hadn’t been, but he’d appreciated they way they’d walled him in on either side, their additional heat and sweat proof that he was not alone.

“You cold?” Genesis asked. It was, of course, rhetorical. It might be winter outside, but the interior of the hospital was dry and cozy. The sweatshirt Sephiroth had worn during the mission to Midgar was still in place, capturing his body heat and making him almost excessively warm. But Genesis wasn’t asking about temperature.

“Kind of,” Sephiroth replied.

“Move over.”

Obligingly, Sephiroth scooted back toward the far edge of the mattress. The little twin bed was narrow, but Genesis was a little shorter and a little slimmer than he was himself. There was just enough room for him to lie down on his side, facing his friend. Perhaps wanting to maintain a polite distance, Genesis kept his own arms folded close, but extended his wing so that it covered Sephiroth from shoulder to shoe. The feathers were softer than he’d expected, holding his warmth and blanketing him in a feeling of safety. Sephiroth had just enough time to return the gesture, spreading his own wing over Genesis before he fell asleep.

\--

The sun was still shining brightly through the high windows of the ward when Sephiroth awoke. Genesis, strangely, was gone. Where he had gotten to, Sephiroth had no idea. He hoped he was alright. His sword was still there, sheathed and lying across a nearby chair, so he couldn’t have gone far. Maybe he’d gone to get breakfast since Sephiroth had eaten his- or perhaps lunch if the pale winter sunshine slanting through the window was any indication. Deciding to worry about Genesis and the emotional upheaval of the previous forty-eight hours later, Sephiroth pulled out his PHS. Not wanting anyone to be able track him by his phone, he’d turned it off upon sneaking into the Shinra building. There was a text from Palmer, and Sephiroth opened it, heart in his throat.

‘ _Home safe.  
Looking forward to family reunion._ ’

His heart sinking back to its proper place, Sephiroth let out a relieved sigh. His brothers and the Turks were safe in Kalm with Palmer’s family. Good. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten Palmer and Scarlett in any trouble. Sephiroth hated to involve more people in his unintentional coup, but Palmer’s oldest daughter had volunteered to hide the boys among her own children, insisting that she was happy to do so. It wasn’t as if they could refuse her help. How he could have secreted a trio of grade-school age children across the sea to a military camp, Sephiroth could not begin to imagine. That was one problem out of the way. His stomach rumbling, and a decided blood sugar headache setting in, Sephiroth stretched and stood. He’d clean up and eat and then report to Rufus, Elfe, and Tseng. They were all in this together. Hopefully they’d be able to help figure out what to do next.

\--

The room he’d been assigned at the local inn was empty when Sephiroth arrived. Zack and the others would be out drilling the new recruits or seeing to other camp duties this time of day. That suited Sephiroth just fine. With everyone busy, he could bathe and dress in peace. Out of habit, he automatically reached into the pockets of his coat before taking it off, and was surprised to find them full. He had entirely forgotten about the objects he’d taken from the Professor’s body. Laying the contents of his pockets on one of the beds, Sephiroth examined what was present: a set of keys, the Professor’s key card, a pocket protector full of pens, and a simple leather wallet. The keys were fairly mundane. One was obviously for a locker at the Shinra gym, two were house keys, and the rest too small for anything other than filing cabinets. The key card might prove valuable later, but the pens and pencils were unremarkable. That left only the wallet. There was perhaps fifty gil in cash, a couple of credit cards, and the Professor’s employee ID and insurance card. Additional cards had been stuffed behind the ID, but were tricky to dislodge. Once he’d managed to wiggle the pieces of plastic loose, however, Sephiroth realized it wasn’t more cards, it was a small packet of miniature photos.

The first one was of himself; not in his uniform, but in a shirt and tie, his hair drawn back in a low ponytail, caught in the midst of an open-mouthed smile. Sephiroth tried to remember the last time he’d worn that shirt. Rarely did he have occasion to wear anything besides his uniform or workout clothes. After several minutes, the memory rose to the surface: the Shinra holiday party three years ago. Genesis and Angeal would have been just to the right of the edge of the photo. Perhaps they had been, originally. It looked as if the picture had been cut down so that it would fit in the little accordion of plastic sleeves.

The photo behind it was a formal company mugshot of himself dressed in his first SOLDIER’s uniform. Judging from the length of his hair- just past his shoulders- he would have been about fifteen; immediately before hostilities broke out in Wutai. Although he’d been trained to use a sword, in the picture he carried a gun. Only officers wielded swords, and he’d been a grunt when the photo was taken.

Another candid shot trimmed to fit followed. In this one he was perhaps eight or nine, looking at a picture book with a little girl who could not have been more than two. Funny, he had all but forgotten about her. Indeed, he could not even remember her name. They had played together now and then, but she’d been so much younger than himself. Try as he might, he could not remember her name. He wondered what had ever become of her?

The next photo was another candid shot of him at perhaps five or six, awkwardly cuddling a gray cat, its fur almost the same shade as his hair. If memory served, that cat had been one of the control animals used in the Dark Nation project. The intern in charge of the animals had let him play with them whenever he liked, even going so far as to let him take the cat back to his bedroom for the night. Like the little girl in the previous photo, the cat had simply vanished one day, and on one would give him a straight answer as to what had happened to it.

The last was, predictably, a picture of himself as a baby. No more than a few months old, he was dressed in a blue sleeper and laid out on a colorful afghan next to a ruler. The presence the measuring device spoiled what should have been an innocent, and perhaps overly-cute composition. Although the colors had degraded over the years, his eyes were the same piercing makou green, but the fine wisps of hair on his infant head were coal black.

Even after bawling like a two-year-old on Elfe’s shoulder, Sephiroth still felt emotionally raw and the pictures weren’t helping. Collapsing the strip of photos, he stopped short and looked again. A second photo had been tucked behind the one of himself as a baby. It was black and white, and small enough that it had not had to be trimmed in order to fit into the sleeve. Carefully extracting it, Sephiroth held it up and studied it.

A man and a woman stood shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning toward one another. The man he recognized after a moment or two as a much younger version of Professor Hojo. Hair short and dressed in a dark suit, he stood next to a petite woman who had her hand hooked on his elbow. She wore a dress of some light color- perhaps white- and carried a bouquet of flowers in her other hand. Flipping the picture over, he read the neat, blocky handwriting on the back:

‘ _Lu & me - our wedding_’

Sephiroth felt his heart stop. This was a picture of his parents on their wedding day. At once he turned the photo over again to examine it more closely. Vincent was right. She was beautiful. As in the films, his mother was short, the top of her head barely level with the Professor’s shoulder. She was sturdier than he’d thought, though behind the bouquet and the full skirt of the wedding gown it was hard to get an idea of her figure. Then again, she would have been expecting when this picture was taken. Sephiroth wished the photograph was in color. Vincent had said she had brown hair, but it must have been a lighter brown. The Professor’s was black, but hers registered dark gray, and was piled high on her head with a wide ribbon. Her eyes, by contrast, were hard to pick out. Vincent had said they were gray, perhaps like blue eyes, they didn’t show up well in monochrome photography. She was smiling, they both were. They looked happy. Maybe back then, they had been? It was hard to think of anyone loving the Professor, of him being in love with someone. 

Flipping the photo over once more, he examined the back for any further notations. It took him a moment to realize his thumb was covering some additional writing. He felt his brows crease as he read it:

‘ _Sephiroth,_  
Don’t forget your family  
Your mother has the key’

What _that_ was supposed to mean, he hadn’t any idea. If this was another one of the Professor’s games, Sephiroth wasn’t sure what the object was.

Wait a minute.

‘ _You are our firstborn,_ ’ Hojo’s- well, Jenova’s- words echoed within his memory. ‘ _A prince among your people. You were made for greater things than your brothers, than your cousins._ ’

Because of the stolen files, Sephiroth knew he had three younger brothers related by blood, but cousins? So far as he knew, neither the Professor nor his mother had siblings. If either of his parents had additional family….hold it. Parents. Hojo had long referred to Jenova as his mother. Elena had included the films and statistics of the three children in Deepground who had also been conceived carrying Jenova’s cells. Going by that logic, one might consider them half-siblings or cousins. Either way, Sephiroth had promised Azul he would help liberate his children from Deepground. Had the old man left him another puzzle, another obtuse clue to try and decipher? Surely the writing on the photo was referring to his human mother, Lucrecia. Hopefully she did not literally hold a key; Sephiroth had no desire to dig up her body, wherever it might lie. However, if the key was more metaphorical...

The Professor had known about Deepground, it was the reason he’d had to harden himself toward his own son, pushing Sephiroth to succeed against standards that mere mortals could not hope to meet. If Hojo had known of Deepground before it had degenerated into an urban legend, perhaps he had known additional details. Like the pass code to the Deepground mainframe that controlled the microchips. Carefully tucking the picture into his own wallet, Sephiroth shoved the various objects back into his coat pockets and hurried to get cleaned up. There were questions forming in the back of his mind. Perhaps by the time he’d showered and eaten, they would be ready to ask.

 

\--

 

Tseng and Rufus were closeted in the town hall as they had been since their arrival, which seemed at once recent and forever ago. It had been autumn when he and the Shinra army had defected, now there was a dusting of snow on the ground. President Rufus had been spending most of his energy going over his father’s accounts which had been made accessible thanks to some corporate espionage on the part of the the Turks. The good news was that Old Man Shinra’s tally books were a lot more black-and-white than his policies where the SOLDIER program was concerned. Knowing he could find both of them there later, Sephiroth went in search of Elfe.

He found both her and Genesis out in the rail yard near the mouths of the coal mines, carefully tapping weapons in a mock duel. Genesis had long complained of being treated like an invalid, but even with his left arm bound in a sling, he did not appear to be handicapped too much. His wing- threaded through a slit in his jacket- was proving useful in this instance, providing weight and balance that his injured limb could not. In contrast, Elfe appeared fully recovered. Both were holding back, each unwilling to hurt the other, but Elfe more so than Genesis. It was like watching meticulously rehearsed choreography, both of them moving through forms with grace and precision, but without the force or power that usually accompanied a sparring match. Unwilling to interrupt them, Sephiroth kept well to one side. Genesis must have noticed him, however, for after a moment he tapped out. It wasn’t truly a surrender, but Elfe was still confused.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, lowering her sword.

“Nothing,” Genesis assured her, nodding in Sephiroth’s direction. “My Second is here.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow, but obligingly stepped forward.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked as Genesis passed. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Just sizing up the competition,” Genesis remarked. Offering Elfe a bow, and Sephiroth a knowing smirk, he left the rail yard to the two of them.

“Don’t worry, I went easy on him,” Elfe assured Sephiroth. “Don’t tell him said that.”

“I won’t,” Sephiroth promised, fighting back a smile.

“Care to go once around,” she asked, hefting her sword slightly. “Our first fight wasn’t really a proper duel.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed, sliding Masamune from her sheath. Technically he had fought her twice, but only remembered their initial encounter. “Conditions?”

Briefly, Elfe consulted the darkening sky. “No blood. First to disarm or corner.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Very well.”

Elfe stepped back a few paces, twirling her sword once. Again Sephiroth was struck at how large and heavy the sword was compared to her height and build. Yoshiyuki were shorter and straighter than the Wutaian long sword he carried, but tended to be much heavier. Surely she could not have lifted it single-handed without Zirconiade’s help? Although the diamond in her hand was hidden by her glove, Sephiroth thought he could detect a soft, blue-white glow peeking through the seams. Elfe’s sword was long enough to use comfortably with two hands, but apparently still light enough to maneuver with only one. Holding the sword straight up, she saluted him, and Sephiroth returned the gesture.

It reminded him of the times he, Angeal, and Genesis had played in the training simulator. There had been an exhilaration in facing off with one another, in matching wits and clashing steel, all the while knowing there was no risk of real harm. Sephiroth did not question that Elfe would adhere to their rules, or worry that she would turn the sharp side of her blade toward him. However, there was a charge in the cold winter air; a degree of excitement that went beyond that of the simulator duels. He found himself watching her, not simply observing her technique but the way she moved. Now that she possessed a whole materia, there was an easiness and an energy to her movements that had not been there the first time they fought.

With Zirconiade restored, she was as strong, as fast, and as difficult to injure as a Jenova-augmented SOLDIER. Ordinarily he had to be careful- so careful- not to hurt the troops he was training. Not since the accident in the training simulator had he been able to relax, to swing Masamune with his full strength and not have to worry about causing real damage. He felt himself grinning as their blades clashed, his hands stinging with the impact. Elfe too was smiling, her white cloak swirling about her as she dodged and feinted, coming at him again, purposely trying to take him off guard, but he was ready for her. Or so he’d thought.

She struck once, twice, in close succession, pressing deep into his space. Masamune was too long to safely extend at such close range, so instead he held her upright, deflecting the blows and twisting her awkwardly to catch Elfe’s sword by the hilt. At first he focused on the crossed blades, noting abstractly the fine engraving around the base of her sword, as well as the name etched into it: _Veritas_. Although Elfe was more than a full head shorter, it wasn’t easy to push back against her straining arms. A flicker of blue reflected off the crossed blades, and he looked up to meet her eyes.

Time slowed as they stared at one another, hilts and eyes locked. Sephiroth’s heart pounded, breaths heavy and his arms shaking, but not just from exertion. In any other circumstance he would have drawn back, Masamune shearing off of Veritas’ edge and both of them squaring off for the next engagement. However, neither of them moved. As if frozen, Sephiroth just stood there, marveling at how Zirconiade had turned Elfe’s already blue eyes to crystal. Alight with makou, they glowed in the dusk like the spirit lights above Icicle Inn. Abstractly, he felt the weight and warmth of her hand on his bicep, noticed that his own hand had drifted to rest on her shoulder.

Her eyes searched his, delving for an answer, but he did not know the question. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out what noise there had been in the winter twilight. Her hand slid up his arm to his shoulder, her fingers coming to rest behind his neck. She stretched to meet him, rising onto her toes as she tugged him down to her level. All Sephiroth had to go on was the handful of examples he’d seen on stage or on screen. He barely had time to tilt his head before their lips touched and the world disappeared.

Sound filtered back slowly, his own ragged breathing loud in his ears. Elfe, panting a bit herself, looked up at him with a slightly surprised expression, as if she were shocked at what they’d done. Not knowing what to say, Sephiroth offered her a shy smile. Elfe returned it, her own smile blossoming wide enough to show her front teeth. There was a sadness to it, however. Stepping closer, she folded her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest. It took him half a heartbeat to recover from the surprise before he put his arms around her in turn, holding her close. The top of her head was just level with his chin, and he rested his cheek on her hair. For a long moment they stood together. Basking in her warmth, the sensation of her arms around him, her cheek against his heart, Sephiroth would have been happy to remain in place forever.

“We can’t do that again,” Elfe said softly into his lapel.

“No,” he agreed, even though he had never wanted anything so much. “We can’t.”

Despite Genesis’ advice, there were other things, other people to think about. The fate of the world quite literally depended on their ability to do their jobs, and neither one of them could afford to be distracted. Gods, he wanted to be distracted, just for a little while…

Reluctantly, he loosened his hold, stepping back and letting his fingers slide down her arms until they stood facing each other, hands joined. It wasn’t until then that he realized at some point he’d released Masamune. Both she and Veritas lay where they had fallen, blades still crossed below the hilt.

“Just for the record,” Elfe said, releasing his fingers to retrieve Veritas, his wider blade lying atop Masamune’s curved edge. “Zircon’s changed her mind about you.”

“Has she?” Sephiroth asked, concerned the kiss had offended the Guardian Spirit. However, Elfe smiled.

“Yeah, I haven’t heard her refer to you as ‘Spawn of the Crisis’ for a while. You impressed her, and that’s not easy to do.”

Sephiroth couldn’t help but smirk at that. “I’m glad she approves.”

“Maybe we can pick this up later?” she suggested, reaching to smooth a stray strand of silver back into his bangs. She was not talking about the duel.

“If I’m around later,” Sephiroth replied, watching her face fall. “Given what happened last time, I don’t know if Genesis or I will survive a downpour of Healing Rain.”

“You really think it’ll kill you?”

Sephiroth shrugged, thinking of the spilled glass of rainwater. “It won’t be pretty.”

Elfe nodded soberly, acknowledging he was more than likely right. “I hope you’re wrong.”

Touched by her sentiment, he wanted to say ‘me too’, but instead asked: “And if I’m right?”

“Then we decide what to do now.”

They had days at best, hours at worst, before everyone would need to mobilize and begin the long walk back to Midgar. Ninety per cent of that time would be spent overseeing what needed to be done. They were both leaders, each a General in their own right with countless people depending on them. Neither one of them could afford to be selfish. On the off chance that one or both of them survived, they could not afford to be foolish either.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sephiroth said, breaking the silence. “I don’t want to be responsible for breaking your heart, or for a Geostigma relapse. I know you have Zirconiade to protect you, but I’d rather not take a chance.”

She nodded in agreement. “Then let’s just go on as we are, as friends.”

Only friends… Despite the disappointment the words brought, he couldn’t help smiling. That was one more friend than he’d had before. He was amassing quite a collection of them, really. Nothing could ever fill the hole Angeal had left, but Zack and Elfe, Aeris, Cloud, and Tifa, Vincent and Veld had done much to ease the pain. Reluctantly, he released her hands and bent to retrieve Masamune. The moment over, it was time to get back to business.

“Would you care to accompany me as a friend and fellow commander to the town hall? I need to make my report to Rufus and you should hear it as well.”

“Alright,” Elfe grinned, amused, and fell into step beside him.

\--

Rufus, despite being nearer to Cloud’s age than Sephiroth’s, looked as if he had aged ten years. Sephiroth could appreciate the stress that came with the responsibilities of being in charge. Tseng too looked more than a little sleep-deprived, but the ubiquitous Turk poker face hid whatever feelings he might have about the whole debacle. 

“I see you recovered the materia shards,” Rufus observed as they closed the door on a draft of cold air that had followed them inside. “Commander Verdot, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Elfe replied with a notable lack of sarcasm in her tone.

Tseng was tapping a message into his PHS. “Sir, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Colonels Fair and Rhapsodos, Shears, and Azul.”

“Vincent should be here too,” Sephiroth added, other matters having driven the memory of the Turk’s assistance from his mind until that moment. “If it wasn’t for him, I would not have escaped alive.” Perhaps that was overstating things somewhat, but that was honestly how he felt. Beside him, Elfe froze.

“Wait, he’s alive?” she asked, unbelieving. “I thought Jenova ate him?”

“She did,” Vincent commented, appearing seemingly out of nowhere as was his habit, with Veld entering the room by the much more mundane method of opening the door. “Apparently I don’t taste very good.”

Elfe just looked at him. Vincent had adopted the suit of Turk blue again, making him no more remarkable or memorable than the other men in the room, save for his red eyes. He opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, but Elfe spoke first.

“Later,” she said sharply. “We have a briefing to get underway.”

Vincent made an abbreviated bow out of his nod of acceptance and stepped back. Sephiroth would have liked to reach and touch Elfe’s shoulder, or perhaps lay a hand on her arm, but now was not the time. Instead, he pulled out a chair for her and then for himself as the others filed in.

“So,” Rufus said by way of an introduction, “what did you find?”

Like the written reports he had so often filed with Shinra, Sephiroth tried to keep it brief and to the point: Scarlet and Palmer had smuggled his brothers out of Midgar with the Turks’ help. They were currently safe in Kalm, being watched by Palmer’s eldest daughter, guarded by Reno, Rude, and Elena.

Midgar was under lockdown with a curfew enforced by Deepground troops; mongrels in the slums, and human soldiers on the plate. Both varieties could be found stalking the halls of the Shinra building. Flying soldiers had pursued Vincent and himself out of the city, but they had vanquished them all. Though to be fair, Vincent had done most of the vanquishing.

Hojo had indeed been in possession of the final Zirconiade shard, except he’d also been possessed by Jenova. Things might have ended quite differently had Vincent not intervened. Next to him, Elfe sat in stony silence, her features unreadable. She wasn’t giving a Vincent a black look exactly, but it was certainly at least dark gray.

“Any leads on the microchips?” Azul asked when he was finished.

“Possibly,” Sephiroth hedged. “Professor Hojo left me a clue, but I need to confirm a few things first. I’d rather not say until I’m certain.”

The giant nodded. “I understand.”

“If I’m right, we may be able to mobilize,” Sephiroth went on. “We’ll have everything we need to conquer both the old regime and Deepground.”

 

\--

 

“You have brothers?” Elfe asked, confused, once the meeting adjourned.

“It’s complicated,” Sephiroth told her, remembering how he’d felt when he had discovered their existence himself. “I didn’t know about them until recently.”

“Older? Younger?” Elfe prompted.

“Younger. _Much_ younger,” Sephiroth replied. “The oldest one’s only ten.”

That made her blink. “Ten? How…?”

“In-vitro,” he explained with a shrug. “The Professor ran the Science Department. He had the means.”

She just stared at him, and Sephiroth shifted awkwardly, feeling as if he ought to apologize. It was absurd, but there it was. After a moment’s reflection, Elfe nodded.

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” she said at last, reaching and squeezing his hand. “I’m glad you have family.”

The smile snuck up on him before he could stop it. “Thank you,” he told her, squeezing in return. Behind them, Vincent stepped out of the building and into the cold winter twilight. At once, Elfe let go and turned to face the Turk. Vincent stopped short, his way forward barred by the two of them. Sephiroth had questions for him, but apparently so did Elfe.

“You shot him,” she said bluntly. “You shot Professor Hojo, and you shot Fuhito.”

“Yes,” Vincent said quietly. Sephiroth had described how Hojo had tried to inject him with more Jenova, how he’d been possessed by the parasite and not in his right mind, probably hadn’t been for years. But Elfe had not been at risk of being sent to Deepground. The Professor had been able to offer kindness to her in a way he had not to his son. She was still angry; justifiably so.

“The last time I saw him, I was seventeen,” she said, her own voice grown quiet. “I thought I had been imagining it, but if what Sephiroth said was true- and I believe him- then something was off even then. Thank you for stepping in.”

Vincent blinked, taken aback, and stood dumbstruck for a moment before inclining his head. Standing aside, Elfe let him pass. Too surprised to comment, Sephiroth simply watched as the older man vanished down the darkening street. He would have to ask his questions later.

“You’re really not angry?” Sephiroth asked, turning to Elfe.

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, shaking her head. “We all thought he’d died fighting Jenova. He saved your life. I may not be ready to forgive him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hold a grudge.”

Sephiroth could have kissed her, but they’d agreed not to for the time being. Hesitantly, he reached and took her hand. Squeezing his fingers briefly, Elfe smiled. He would have liked to stand there with her while night descended around them, but they both had things to do. The Avalanche troops no doubt needed their commander, and Genesis needed more blood.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” Sephiroth agreed. “Take care.”

 

\--

 

Sephiroth had not seen Genesis look so self-satisfied since Red Leather’s club membership had briefly overtaken that of Silver Elite. Smiling smugly, the younger man held out his hand as if awaiting payment. With a sigh, Sephiroth dutifully slapped his palm.

“I win?” Genesis asked.

“You win,” Sephiroth conceded. They’d bet no money- gambling was discouraged in ranks- instead, the stakes among Angeal, Genesis, and himself had always been much higher. In this case, Genesis had won his right to gloat honestly and Sephiroth could only imagine how much teasing he was going to have to endure.

“Say it,” Genesis demanded with a wicked grin. Sephiroth exhaled through his nose, feeling his face heat.

“...I like her.”

Genesis leaned back and closed his eyes, the look on his face like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “And...?”

“And _what?_ ”

“Did you tell her?”

Sephiroth’s cheeks burned hotter. “I’m pretty sure she knows.”

Genesis laughed at that. “Indeed. _My friend, your desire is the bringer of life, the gift of the goddess._ After watching the two of you, I feel like _I_ need a cold shower.”

“You certainly need to go soak your head,” Sephiroth grumbled around a smile, and chucked the bed pillow at him. Genesis could be obnoxious, but it was difficult to stay angry with him. Perhaps feeling he’d pushed a bit too far, Genesis let the pillow hit him full in the face. When it fell to his lap, the smug smile had relaxed into something more natural.

“Seriously though, where does that leave you now?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “More formal than we were before? Nothing’s changed, really.”

“So...you’re just going to be friends?”

“Speeches about seizing the moment aside, we _are_ in the middle of an active conflict with an alien parasite and a corporation that runs most of the known world,” Sephiroth reminded him. “We can’t exactly take time out for personal matters right now.”

“Oh for the love of Shiva...” Genesis groaned in exasperation, collapsing dramatically over the edge of the cot. “You are hopeless. Positively _hopeless!_ ” Upper body dangling upside down, he pointed an accusatory finger at his friend. “You, Sir, are going to die a virgin and you will have no one to blame but yourself!”

“So far as _you_ know,” Sephiroth replied, paging through his PHS. Genesis jerked upright and stared at him, eyes wide. Looking up from his phone, Sephiroth smiled back at him serenely. “Don’t hurt yourself jumping to conclusions.”

“You think you’re so clever,” Genesis muttered and chucked the bed pillow back at him. Sephiroth caught it easily with one hand and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Content: [A very lovely sketch](http://jen-mania.tumblr.com/post/149448206220/sephiroth-x-elfe-i-hate-falling-for-rare-and) of Sephiroth and Elfe by the talented Jen-Mania


	55. Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Deepground kids try to fight City Hall.  
> It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for more Deepground and massive amounts of NSFW.  
> All of you under 18? Out.  
> No. Really. Out.  
> I’m waiting.  
> Right, then.
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> \- Secondary character death  
> \- Brutality/torture  
> \- Physical mutilation (female)  
> \- Very Unpleasant Things In General
> 
> This goes a bit beyond previous chapters. Those of you who don’t want to read non-gory details of Terrible Things happening to people, that’s cool. Just know that the Deepground Kids have had their world rocked, tried to do the right thing, and suffered horribly for attempting to go against the System.

Weiss began to notice the JANEs after that. There weren’t that many of them; only one for every twenty or thirty JOEs. It was oddly tricky to pick them out at first, the shapeless uniforms hiding what should have set them apart visually. It wasn’t that they were smaller, or that they had rounder hips and breasts. What distinguished them most was the way they moved, and how they stood. There was a strange hyper-vigilance to them and to many of the smaller males as well. It took him a minute to mark that they tended to travel in packs, never less than three, often as many as six or eight. They went everywhere together: the mess hall, the showers, even the toilets. Weiss remembered Azul being scandalized at the communal wash rooms. Evidently such things were segregated by gender, Outside. At the time, Weiss had shrugged off the remark, amused at yet another one of Azul’s peculiarities. Now, however, he thought he might have an idea as to why Azul had been so upset.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was all too easy to spot the larger, stronger soldiers pushing around those smaller and weaker than themselves. This was beyond competition, well past asserting authority and deep into just plain cruel. It was one thing to face off for blood in the arena, it was another to gang up on someone when it was obvious they’d have a hard time fending off one person, let alone five. What was the point? Where was the challenge? And what had the weaker soldiers done to merit such a beat-down? The first time- as with the JANE- Weiss had been too stunned, too confused, and had simply watched it happened. Afterward, he had hoisted the soldier- face bloody and arm clearly broken- onto his shoulders and carried him down to the medical bay. The second time, he intervened, and smashed the ring-leader’s face into the wall, his teeth scattering across the shower floor along with the broken tiles.

“What was that about?” Rosso asked him once the rest of the gang had hastily dispersed.

“He almost killed a recruit last week,” Weiss explained. “He’s abusing rank- and his troops.”

Rosso tilted her head, confused. “So he’s an ass. So what? If a recruit can’t fight back, what good are they?”

“Think about it,” Weiss urged her. “New recruits are people that won’t be missed Outside: vagrants, convicts, prisoners, runaways. They don’t know _how_ to defend themselves. Hell, they don’t even know that they should. They don’t think the same way we do.”

Rosso watched the streaks of blood draining away across the battered white tile and nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re doing them a favor? Saving them now so they can die later?”

She wasn’t being sarcastic, she was honestly curious, and Weiss did not have an answer for her.

He still didn’t have an answer as she and Nero followed him into the training simulator. It wasn’t real, but the holographic landscape of what the world looked like Outside was still impressive. One day, Azul had promised them, they would learn what it was like to feel the sun on their faces and grass under their feet. All of them took a moment just to look, to admire, and to long to know what it was like to be in a place without a ceiling.

There were a dozen Tsviet potentials this time; nine men, three women. It wasn’t often women made it that far up the ranks as they tended to be smaller and not as strong as the male soldiers. However, the women present looked pretty sturdy. One had close-cropped black curls and skin so dark that it was easy to lose sight of her in the shadowy corners of the arena. She wasn’t very tall, but Weiss got the feeling that punching her would be like driving his fist into a brick wall. The second was tall and rangey, all sinew and long bones. She might not be strong, but her build alone warned him of speed. The third was forgettable, but carried a rifle, which meant she could attack from a distance. It was harder to tell the men apart. Hair and eye-color barely registered as he took in their builds, their stances, and the weapons they carried. Most looked nervous, some determined, and a few had a look in their eyes that said they were either going to win or die trying.

Ordinarily, Weiss lived for the few chances he got to wield his gunblades, but this time, there was no joy in it. Like the bullies who tortured the lesser recruits, there was no challenge in this. The only time he _really_ had to think on his feet, had to get creative or fight dirty, the only time he left the arena sweating and sore and exhilarated was when he sparred with Rosso and Nero. This wasn’t a challenge, this wasn’t even fun.

“This is _stupid_ ,” Weiss groused, tossing his weapons to the floor. “If I wanted to stomp roaches, I’d go down to the mess hall kitchens. This isn’t battle, this is slaughter. What’s the point of training Tsviets if we’re only going to kill them?”

Both Rosso and Nero stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Two of the females were already dead, Rosso had the third by the hair. Looking at her, she let her drop and shouldered her razorbolt.

“You’re right,” she agreed. “This is dumb.”

“I don’t like fighting with guns,” Nero added, shifting so that his rig rattled. “I’m no good with them. Why can’t I use my shadows?”

The white coats supervising the melee exchanged confused glances as one of the Restrictors came over.

“You will fight,” it rasped, its voice all corroded wires and rust. “Continue.”

“This isn’t fighting,” Weiss told it, anger fueling his audacity. “I want a challenge. Send me to kill Sephiroth. Send me to bring Azul back. You bred us to be strong, to take command, why not let us actually _do_ something?”

“You will do as you are commanded,” it growled.

“Weiss…” Rosso said, coming over to stand at his shoulder, Nero right behind.

“Why do we need to kill our own soldiers?” he asked, knowing he should stop but unable to keep his mouth shut. “Don’t you want more colored Tsviets?”

“ _Enough!_ ”

Weiss shut his jaws with a snap, a cold shiver chasing over his skin. He should have shut up when Rosso told him. Now they were all probably going to get in trouble. He swallowed hard, doing his best to stare down the Restrictor even though he could not see its eyes. Rosso and Nero edged closer to him, enough that their arms touched his. Whatever happened, they were with him.

“You will fight,” it ordered.

Weiss scowled. He might not be able to lift a hand against the black-clad fiend, but that didn’t mean he had to obey _every_ order. “No.”

“Crimson!” it barked. “Sable! Continue.”

“I’m with Weiss,” Rosso told it haughtily. “Why kill the people good enough to make it this far?”

“Me too,” Nero added.

“You will fight!” it snarled.

“We _won’t_ ,” Weiss said flatly.

The Restrictor raised one ragged arm and the echo of multiple safeties being clicked off echoed throughout the simulator. Before Weiss could even think _No!_ machinegun fire ricocheted deafeningly off the steel walls. Even Weiss the Immaculate was not faster than gunfire. In the time it had taken him to snatch his own weapons from the floor, the Tsviet candidates lay lifeless and bloody on the simulator floor.

“You _will_ ,” the Restrictor told them tonelessly and walked away.

 

\--

 

After talking to Jane, Weiss had not been able to make himself report for duty when his turn came for the breeding program. Now combat training had also been spoiled. It didn’t seem to matter what he did, people would be hurt or killed whether he chose obedience or to rebel. Jane might be exempt from punishment now, but only so long as she stayed hidden. Sequestered in the dark makou caverns, she was safe. However, because of the microchip she could not escape. It wasn’t freedom, but at least she wouldn’t have to suffer any further advances from the other JOEs in the breeding program.

“Weiss?” Behind his mask, Nero looked worried. Because exposure to dark makou left his and Rosso’s skin red and chapped, he had left Jane’s care in Nero’s hands. The younger man had doted on her like a child with a new pet, bringing her food, blankets, and any other objects he thought might please or amuse her. It had been several days since Weiss had seen her last, and Nero’s expression did not suggest confidence.

“What is it?”

“I think there’s something wrong with Jane.”

“Show me.”

“Can I come too?” Rosso asked him as he and Nero prepared to disappear. Without Rosso, there would be no one to deflect suspicion. However, it wasn’t fair to make her cover for them.

“Come on,” Weiss told her, holding out a hand. She took it, and Nero grabbed her other hand, pulling them both into his shadows.

In Weiss’ opinion, there was something inherently cold and damp about dark makou. Shaking off the urge to shiver, he strode over to Jane’s nest of blankets. She lay curled up on one side, seemingly asleep.

“Jane?” Weiss asked, crouching down so that he did not tower over her quite so much. 

“Hey,” she said weakly, opening her eyes and offering him a small smile.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her. 

“I’m pregnant,” she said, stiffly rolling onto her back and lifting the hem of her shirt.

She barely had any belly yet, but the dark, muddy splotches dotting her stomach, arms, and face were proof enough. She was indeed expecting; she had Mother’s Disease. 

“Jane, no…” Weiss murmured, scooping her off the floor and into his arms. She was hot to the touch, her skin dry and burning as if she’d been standing in front of Argento’s forge. Wait. Argento.

“Get Argento!” Weiss ordered. At once Nero disappeared, the shadows condensing thickly before compressing into nothing.

“Do you think she’ll be able to do anything?” Rosso asked softly.

Weiss shook his head. “I dunno.”

Shadows crowded the space where Nero had stood, wider and thicker this time. After a moment, they dissipated, leaving Nero still holding onto Argento’s arm.

“What is this?” she asked, more confused than alarmed.

“She’s sick,” Weis said, holding Jane out by way of an explanation. “Please, can’t you fix her?”

Argento removed her gloves and came over, placing her hand on Jane’s head. One of the muddy spots on her face had torn, allowing dirty brown fluid to ooze down her cheek. Argento’s usually enigmatic expression softened into sadness.

“I’m sorry child,” she said, and Weiss wasn’t sure if she was addressing him or Jane. “There is nothing I can do.”

Weiss knew there was no cure for Mother’s Disease, but he had hoped there might be something Argento could do to ease her pain.

“I can’t take her to Medical,” he said, protectively gathering Jane closer. “You know what will happen.”

They’d let her suffer, hoping to salvage her baby so that at least they’d get a new SOLDIER out of her. But if she was this sick this early, it wasn’t likely either Jane or her baby would live. Weiss didn’t want her to die alone and in pain. This was his fault. He’d given her both the baby and the illness. He was responsible for seeing her through this.

“There is only one path to freedom,” Argento reminded him, voice soft. “Return her to her family.”

Throat suddenly tight, Weiss nodded miserably. Jane might not understand what Argento meant, but he did. Settling cross-legged on the floor, Weiss pulled Jane into his lap. Unsure what else to do, Rosso and Nero sat down nearby.

“Jane...I’m so sorry…” Weiss began. Jane smiled and shook her head.

“It’s okay. This was always a possibility. I never wanted my baby to grow up here. I didn’t want to be a JANE. I knew I wouldn’t get out of here alive. I’m not angry, at least not at you. That’s just how it is.”

Weiss swallowed hard on the knot in his throat, trying and failing to force words past it. Not knowing what else to do, he brought her face close to his and pressed his cheek against hers. “I didn’t want to hurt you…”

Weakly, Jane lifted a hand to cup his cheek. “It’s okay,” She assured him. Weakly, she snugged her other arm around his neck. “I still wish I’d never gotten captured, but I’m glad I got picked to be with you. I didn’t think there would be any love or kindness in a place like this.”

“There isn’t,” Ross told her, confused.

“Yes there is,” Jane insisted. “If there wasn’t, you wouldn’t have hidden me here, wouldn’t have tried to keep me safe from the Restrictors and the other JOEs. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have come down here to check on me, even though you could be punished if you were caught.”

Weiss exchanged glances with Rosso and Nero. Jane had a point. He did care about his brother, about Rosso. They were important to him, and he liked being around them, but...there was more to it than that.

“You didn’t learn that from the Restrictors,” Jane went on, her voice small in the echoing silence of the cave. “Who taught you?”

“I don’t understand,” Nero said, head tilted to one side. “Who taught us what?”

Jane’s lips turned up, but her expression was too sad to be a smile. “How to love.”

Rosso blinked, lost. “What are you talking about?”

Too tired to hold her head up, Jane leaned against Weiss’ shoulder, a look of deep contemplation on her face. “You love your siblings because they’re important to you,” she began. “You share the same blood, the same family. You’re connected to them in ways you aren’t to anyone else. You love your friends because it’s like having more siblings, but you’re not related to each other. You like the same things, and can talk to each other easily. They’re always there for you, and you want one another to be happy. You can fall in love with someone; become so close to each other that it would make you miserable to be separated. You value their life and their happiness above your own. You would die to protect them, but you’d rather live to keep them safe and happy.”

“Sounds like it’s all the same thing to me,” Rosso observed.

Jane smiled tiredly. “I guess it kind of is.”

She shuddered and squeezed her eyes closed as a spasm of pain shook her. Weiss thought he could see the dark splotches on her skin grow larger. He gave her a moment to recover, his cheek resting on her hair. Tilting her face up, she lightly touched her lips to his.

“You’ve been so kind to me already,” she breathed. “Do me one last kindness.”

She hid her face in his shoulder and Weiss folded his arms around her, cradling her head in one hand.

“What’s your name?” he asked her quietly. “Your real name?”

Her voice was weak and raspy, but he felt the smile as she spoke the word: “Tammy.”

Of its own volition, his hand stroked over her head, her hair soft and smooth beneath his fingers. Gradually, she relaxed against him and he cast a questioning glance at Nero. His brother leaned to look at her face and nodded. She’d either fallen asleep, or passed out. Taking a deep breath, Weis let his hand drift down to rest on the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry, Tammy,” he murmured into her hair, gently snugging his arms around her in a hug. “I love you.”

A twist of his wrist, a splintery pop, and Jane- Tammy- lay limp in his arms, her head lolling loosely on his shoulder. For several minutes they sat silent, contemplating her body. Suddenly, Nero was very glad he’d been banned from the breeding program. Rosso’s expression was nearly as stricken as Weiss’.

“It isn’t fair,” she said at last, the soft words loud in the silence. She did not specify what wasn’t fair, but there was no need. Nothing was fair, not when it came to Deepground.

“What do we do with her?” Nero asked.

It was a fair question. The Jenova in her body would not allow her to dissolve into pyreflies immediately. However, she didn’t carry so much that her corpse would rot like those of the soldiers before it evaporated. Weiss didn’t like the idea of Jane- he couldn’t help thinking of her as “Jane”- lying alone in the dark.

“We wait.”

Nero edged closer so that his right arm was pressed against Weiss’ left. On his other side, Rosso also scooted over so that they were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. Argento sank to the ground, her knees close enough to touch his crossed ankles, completing the tight circle.

Jane was not a soldier. Soldiers died quick, sudden, violent deaths by gunshot or sword thrust. There were no rules, no rituals for such a death, unless one counted burning bodies that would not dematerialize on their own. There should be more; something to say or do, but tiny sparkles of light had begun to glitter across Jane’s body. A spike of panic shot through him and he turned to Argento, pleading:

“What do I do?”

The weaponsmith smiled gently, sadly, and laid a hand on his arm. “We say goodbye.”

Reaching, Argento laid her hand on Jane’s brow. “Farewell Tammy, called Jane.”

Nero copied her example, bare hand stroking Jane’s head, shadows trailing from his fingers. “Goodbye Tammy.”

Rosso hesitated before running her fingers over Jane’s brown hair, voice quiet as she muttered; “Goodbye Tammy.”

“Goodbye,” Weiss echoed, his arms finally letting go. _...Jane._

Her body had become increasingly transparent as they said their farewells. As the last word fell unspoken, the last of her mortal shell vanished into a swarm of gold-winged creatures that seemed to be made of light. They spiraled toward the ceiling in a shower of brilliant sparkles until they too vanished into the darkness.

“We should go back,” he heard himself say, voice rough and hollow. “They’ll wonder where we went.”

“Weiss..” Rosso stretched, swiping her fingers across his cheek and smearing wetness. “Your eyes.”

He hadn’t noticed until that moment the salt water streaming down his cheeks. Fruitlessly, he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It won’t stop,” he told her helplessly. Normally death didn’t bother him, but the world had diminished now that Jane was not in it. He didn’t feel about her the way he did Rosso or Nero, but she had been important, she had taught him things he would never have learned otherwise. It was as if in snapping her neck he’d broken something inside himself, and he did not know how to fix it.

“It will stop,” Argento assured him. “It will take time, but it will not always hurt.”

He had no reason to doubt her, Argento had never lied to him. However, it was difficult to believe that this feeling as if he’d been stabbed, as if he were bleeding from an invisible wound, would ever go away. They sat with him, all of them, until his tears had stopped.

 

\--

 

Weiss became quiet after Jane died, they all did. If they spoke less, they fought more- not with each other, but with the bullies and thugs who their abused their position. There were a lot of them. It got to the point where the offenders would seek Weiss out and challenge him themselves. That lasted about a week until Weiss had slaughtered enough of them that they grudgingly began to behave themselves- especially once Rosso and Nero began to help. They had not known Jane the way he had, but watching her disappear into spirit and starlight had left an impression on all of them.

The Restrictors, oddly, didn’t seem to care what they did so long as the blood flowed. None of them had said anything anyway, which was fine with Weiss. With the tyrants dead, those more deserving of authority were able to be promoted. It was the first time Weiss’ subordinates had liked him as well as feared him. However, once drill was over and practice had concluded, it was just the three of them. Though they sympathised with him to an extent, neither Rosso, nor Nero seemed to know what to do, or if they should do anything.

“It hurts,” he told them when they asked, unable to explain it better than that.

“Is there a way to fix it?” Nero asked.

Weiss shook his head. “I dunno, but it doesn’t hurt as much when the two of you are around.”

They stuck as close to him as they could during the day without it seeming too obvious, but made up for it by snuggling extra close when they all laid down to sleep. With Nero’s respirator digging into his chest, his long, cold body pressed against his left side, and Rosso’s head pillowed on his shoulder, gathering heat on his right, Weiss stared at the ceiling and tried not to think. The three of them had always been inseparable, invincible, and while Jane was nowhere near as strong, as fast, or as sturdy as they were, he could not get the image of her small body disappearing into fairy lights out of his head. What if that should happen to Rosso and Nero? What if it had already happened to Azul? He hoped not. Nero turned in his sleep so that he lay curled with his back to his brother. No longer worried about potentially waking him, Weiss turned himself so that he faced Rosso and pulled her close.

“Bahamut’s tail, Weiss,” Rosso mumbled groggily. She might be half-asleep, but she wasn’t too comatose to whack him in the face with a pillow. “It’s three in the damn morning. I am _sleeping_. Deal with it yourself.”

Shoving the pillow off his face, Weiss shifted so that she lay against him, her back to his chest, and curled an arm around her.

“I said _no!_ ” Rosso grumbled, elbowing him hard in the stomach. Weiss grunted, and jabbed her in return with one knee.

“And you accuse me of having a gutter brain,” he mumbled into her hair. “I just wanna be next to you. That’s all.”

“You’re so weird,” she yawned, but snuggled contentedly into his warmth before dropping off again.

 

\--

 

Maybe Rosso shared his secret worry, the unpleasant knowledge that while the three of them might be damned hard to kill, they were not invincible. She let him cuddle her when they slept, going so far as to put her arms around him in turn. At mess she sat close enough that their thighs touched, her knee and ankle also meeting his. Sparring became ridiculous contests of who could touch or pinch the other with bare fingers rather than weapons, and if the two of them crowded under the same faucet in the showers afterward- Nero always escaped to the dark makou pools to bathe- who was going to question it?

Although having his siblings nearby did much to ease the internal ache that Jane had left, it was far from healed. The invisible wound felt especially raw and bloody as Weiss went with Rosso to the training simulator, walking close enough that their hands brushed occasionally.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he confessed, lingering before the still-closed door. Practice wasn’t technically for another ten minutes and Nero always waited until the last fraction of a second before appearing to be fitted with his rig and pistols, so it was just the two of them waiting outside. “What if they shoot everyone again?”

“They haven’t said anything about our crusade to rid this place of as many jerks as possible,” Rosso observed. “Maybe they don’t care so long as you kill someone?”

“Maybe,” Weiss replied, certain he would never understand Restrictor logic, and equally certain that he never wanted to. Rosso looked up at him, golden eyes full of concern. 

“Are you okay?”

Weiss shrugged. “I have to be.”

Glancing to one side and then the other, Rosso chewed her lip for a moment, and then pulled him aside, around the curved edge of the simulator wall and into a corner filled with shadows.

“Can I ask you something?”

Weiss blinked. “Um, sure.”

“What was that thing you and Jane did with your lips?”

“Our lips?” he echoed, surprised.

“Yeah. She touched her lips to yours and then you did the same. What’s that mean? Is it an Outside thing?”

“Yeah,” Weiss, told her, smiling despite himself. “It’s called a kiss. It’s sort of in the same category as a hug.”

“So ‘thank you’, and ‘I love you’, and happy things that you can’t put into words,” she said, and Weiss swallowed hard at hearing Jane’s words from her lips. Jane had been important, an invaluable source of information, but she was not Rosso, could never be Rosso. He had cared about her, yes, but not the way he cared for Rosso.

“A kiss means all that but more, way more,” he told her, voice tight.

“Okay, then.”

Hesitantly, as if trying to figure out how this might work, she stepped into his space and put her arms around him. They’d known each other all their lives, had been having sex almost since they were old enough to understand how it worked. This was the first time he’d consciously felt his heartbeat quicken in her presence. Stretching, she tilted her head and brought her face close to his. Weiss bent his neck to meet her halfway, gently pressing his lips against hers. Initially, it was a bit awkward, a bit clumsy, but it didn’t take them long to sort it out. After a minute they broke apart, both of them panting as if they’d already spent an hour at drill. Heat was crawling up Weiss’ neck, into his face, and he was grinning like an idiot but he didn’t care. Smiling herself, Rosso looked up at him and Weiss was sure this must be what sunlight felt like. Gathering her close, Weiss wrapped his arms around her and Rosso laid her head on his shoulder, content to stand in the circle of his arms.

“I just...I want to be close to you,” she said quietly. “Close enough to feel your warmth, to hear your heartbeat. You’ve been so sad, and it hurts me inside to see you like that.”

“You mean a lot to me,” he murmured into her ear, laying his cheek against hers. “I like being around you, I like hearing your voice. I think you’re smart, and strong, and beautiful, and if anything happened to you…” his voice caught and he had to swallow before he could continue. “...I couldn’t handle it,” he whispered, tilting his head to touch his lips to hers again. Jane’s words whispered inside his memory:

_You can fall in love with someone; become so close to each other that it would make you miserable to be separated. You value their life and their happiness above your own. You would die to protect them, but you’d rather live to keep them safe and happy._

“I love you Rosso.”

“I love you too,” she breathed into his ear when they finally came up for air. Weiss closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into her slender hands as she cupped his face. Holding her chin in his hands as well was more familiar than the hug, and he tipped his head forward to touch his forehead to hers. The world could have ended right then and there, and he would have been perfectly fine with it.

And then it did.

“Immaculate. Crimson. What the hell?”

Both snapped to attention at once at the Restrictor’s interjection. Rarely did the Restrictors use such informal speech. There was no possible way such a breach of protocol could be a good thing. For an endless, agonizing moment they stood and stared at one another, the Restrictor apparently expecting an explanation and Weiss offering none.

“Would you care to explain?”

“No,” Weiss told it.

There was a moment of ominous silence. “Where did you learn that?”

Weiss said nothing.

“I’m waiting.”

Heart beating loudly in his chest, Weiss kept his mouth shut.

“I see,” the Restrictor said after a silence so long and tense that Weiss had thought of at least half a dozen new ways in which they might be punished. “Both of you come with me.”

They could not disobey.

It led them away from the training simulator, down toward the heart of Deepground near Reactor Zero, and Rosso touched Weiss’ hand, having figured it out half a second before he did. Unthinking, he laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. They’d already stepped in it, there was no way to make their punishment less horrible, they might as well make it worth it.

Two of the other Restrictors were securing Nero’s wrists to the Punishment Pole while a third watched. Weiss’ stomach sank straight through the floor. All four Restrictors presiding over a punishment was _not_ a good sign. Rosso’s hand trembled in his, but he couldn’t stop the tremors of fear in his own limbs let alone reassure her.

“Immaculate, Crimson, Sable,” one of them intoned in a voice of scrap metal and battery acid, “you are guilty of violating regulations: unauthorized requisition of a Mother, multiple counts of theft, insubordination, dereliction of duty, and fraternization. You shall be punished accordingly.”

Weiss jumped as one of the black-clad fiends seized him by the shoulders and yanked him back, another similarly grabbing Rosso, pulling her away. Weiss struggled instinctively, even as the chip implanted at the base of his skull began to burn. The Restrictor that had bound Nero to the pole stood back, crossed arms hidden beneath its ragged cloak.

Nero’s expression was fearful, but stolid. “Jane?” he asked and Weiss nodded.

“Jane.”

Nero nodded in return, bracing himself, not the least bit sorry for his role in this. The Restrictors exchanged looks, but said nothing. One of them- the one with the broken crest on his helmet- stepped forward and tore off Nero’s mask, casting it to the ground. Sweeping his cloak back, he stomped on the respirator with one heavy boot, crushing it.

“ _No!_ ” Rosso shrieked, unable to help herself. Weiss could only gape, mute with horror. As if in retaliation to Rosso’s outcry, one of the other Restrictors went over to the timer and cranked it back until the spring popped and the knob snapped off in his hand.

“ _No!_ ” Weiss cried, straining against the black-clad arms. “ _No, you’ll kill him!_ ”

They ignored him, the one with the broken helm gesturing to the other, all of them descending on Rosso and Weiss like a wake of bloodthirsty vultures while Nero gagged and choked, ignored.

 

\--

 

It took all four of them to strap him into the chair; two Restrictors to hold him down, and the other two to latch the manacles around his ankles, wrists, and neck. Automatically, Weiss lurched against them, but they held fast. It took him a belated moment to recognize the barbed links, the cold weight of the collar. He’d worn these chains before, years ago, when he was too young to control how much damage he might inflict. Fear clenched his guts, squeezing bile up into his throat. This was bad. This was so bad.

“No wait!” he called after the Restrictors as they filed out of the room. “No! It was my fault! I’m the one who should be punished! She didn’t do anything! Don’t hurt her!”

The last one in line turned and looked at him. Although he could not see the expression beneath its helmet, Weiss was pretty sure it was smirking at him.

“She cannot be hurt,” it said, and then turned and left.

“No!” Weiss shouted, straining against the chains. “NO! No, come back! Take me!”

But they were already gone.

Turning, Weiss braced one foot against the seat, grabbed a chain in both hands and _yanked_. Nothing. He tried again but without result. The chair had been forged from the same metal as the chains, so he couldn’t break that apart either. Maybe he could rip it out of the floor? The chains, however, were too short to allow decent leverage. He’d been four or five the last time he’d had to wear them, and from the looks of things they hadn’t been lengthened.

A light clicked on behind him and he whipped around to face the wall. There was a long window set into it that he had not noticed in the darkness. On the other side was a metal table and a lot of machines and implements that he vaguely recognized as belonging to the medical unit. There were already three white-coated doctors milling about, their surgical masks hiding their faces. They stood back as the four Restrictors entered, all of them struggling to hold onto Rosso as she kicked and clawed, trying to get away from them. There were slashes in her uniform, red running from them, staining the fabric. She didn’t notice, not that she would have ordinarily.

“Rosso!” Weiss shouted, straining against the chains.

She didn’t seem to hear him. She was screaming and shouting, hurling curses at the Restrictors as they wrestled her onto the table. The doctors stepped in to help, each bearing a huge syringe. One plunged a needle into her upper arm, another into her thigh, the third her neck. After a moment, the shouting died down and she collapsed limply in their arms.

“NO!” Weiss screamed for her. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!”

Probably the same thing they’d done to Jane and the other Mothers, he realized. Although her mouth continued to move, her lips to form four-letter words, she no longer had control of her body. Paralyzed, all she could do was lay there- feet closest to the window, her head pointed toward the far wall- while the Restrictors secured her wrists and elbows; her chest and waist. One of the doctors yanked off her boots and trousers before securing her legs and pushing her knees wide apart.

Weiss had seen Rosso naked a thousand times. She, himself, and Nero had grown up side by side, sharing washing and sleeping space. Nudity barely registered to any of them. Now, however, seeing her stripped and restrained, Weiss felt angry and ashamed. This was meant to hurt, to humiliate. They had no right to do that to her.

“STOP IT!” he roared, pulling so hard he nearly gagged himself. “DON’T TOUCH HER!!”

Of course, they didn’t listen. Weiss tried not to watch, to keep his eyes on her face, but she was soundlessly screaming his name, terrified. When the scalpel pierced her skin, she froze, her head falling back onto the table. Her face hidden, all he could do was watch.

“NO!!!” he screamed, clawing for the window. The plexiglass seemed to mock him, standing as it was several feet out of reach. “ROSSO!!! NO!!!”

His vision blurred and the room briefly went black. Staggering back, he fell against the chair and gagged a second time as the chain pulled taut before he could collapse to the floor. Instinct and adrenaline drove him to find his feet, to claw his way up onto the seat before he hanged himself. In vain he tore at the ring around his neck, pulled at the manacles, but it was no use. Turning, he stretched to see what had become of Rosso. There was blood. A _lot_ of blood. And they didn’t seem to be done carving her up. Weiss could not breathe. Diaphragm convulsing once, twice, he retched. Coughing and sputtering, he stumbled back, falling onto the seat of the chair.

On the other side of the window, the doctors had put the scalpels away. Rosso lay flayed, exposed, and still bleeding though not as badly as before. Having taken what they wanted, they began to stitch her back together. There was too much skin now to cover her raw flesh. He watched as the extra was trimmed away as if hemming a too-long cuff. That’s all she was to them; raw material, bulk goods, something to be shaped and remade at will. Their will. One of her legs twitched, her toes curling under tightly.

Oh gods. She could feel it.

Weiss didn’t even try to fight it as his gorge rose and he jerked against the chains, vomiting again.

The last suture knotted, the doctors stepped back, revealing their handiwork. There was no more blood, no more raw flesh, no more anything anymore. There was less of her now than there had been. Weiss felt sick; honestly ill. For what felt like eternity he stared at her, watched as they undid the restraints. Rosso did not move. Weiss couldn’t either. The chains felt a hundred times as heavy as they had when the Restrictors had bound him to the chair. Heavier by far was the invisible weight of guilt pinning him in place. He could not get up; could barely breathe. One kiss. One kiss had cost Rosso so much. It was his fault. He could not help her. There was nothing he could do.

Inside the operating room, the light clicked off. It was over. No going back. Done.

No longer caring what happened to him, if the Restrictors saw, Weiss collapsed against the chair and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: washrooms - I wrote this practically a FULL YEAR before the dreaded "Bathroom Bill".  
> So long as the toilets are divided by nice big walls for personal privacy, I think people should be able to do their business in peace.
> 
> (And if we are going to fuss over this, I would like to suggest that women's bathrooms be DOUBLE the size of men's rooms because the line is always at least twice as long for the ladies room. :P)
> 
> I hate locker rooms on principal and think EVERYONE ought to have a little changing booth rather than having to strip down in front of all and sundry, don't care what kind of equipment they've got. :P
> 
> This was not intended to be taken as a commentary on the current political idiocy. The problem in Deepground is not that they have co-ed facilities. The problem is that said facilities are full of psychopaths/sociopaths/generally not-nice and dangerous individuals of both genders who under other circumstances would be in prison for their behavior.


	56. Solitary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after Punishment. The remaining Deepground kids soldier on as best they can.  
> Team Rufus hashes our logistics, and Sephiroth asks Vincent a hard question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Deepground, but less heavy than previous chapters.  
> Still a butt-ton of angst, still probably NSFW, but hopefully slightly less traumatic.
> 
> Special thanks to AltenativeFutureFan27 for the suggestion concerning Silver Elite.

Rosso lay perfectly still. Arms at her sides, knees and ankles together, she lay flat on her back and hardly breathed, barely blinked. She could hear her heart pounding, and with it throbbed something so much worse than the beautiful ache that Weiss sometimes gave her. She had thought that was unpleasant if left unattended. It was nothing compared to this. She had never felt pain before. She felt it now.

It had been hours, perhaps days, but she could not escape the feeling of the scalpels slicing through her flesh; the sharp point of the needles and the rough tug of the catgut when the doctors had sewn her back up. They had not bothered with a Cure materia. They had left her body to repair itself slowly, without magic, without anesthesia. As far as the doctors and Restrictors were concerned, she did not need it. She had never been able to feel pain, so having a chunk of flesh removed should not bother her. And if it did hurt, that was no more than Weiss deserved.

_You are guilty of violating regulations: unauthorized requisition of a Mother, multiple counts of theft, insubordination, dereliction of duty, and fraternization. You shall be punished accordingly._

The Restrictors had killed Nero, left him hanging alone to gag and choke until he suffocated. They had killed him to hurt her, and they had hurt her to hurt Weiss. And she _did_ hurt, but losing Nero hurt worse. So she laid perfectly still, chest aching, eyes burning, and purposely concentrated on everything below her waist. It was less painful than thinking about Nero.

The scar made an awkward gap between her thighs, letting cold air under the thin hospital smock. They’d left her in her room and locked her in. They wouldn’t have needed to install the door. She couldn’t move. If she tried to sit or stand, the stitches might tear, and her insides would fall out. She would have liked to stretch, to lean and pull the blankets up over herself, but she dared not. Instead, she lay as still as she could, shivering.

 

\--

 

They left him there, chained and spattered in vomit. Weiss finally ran out of tears and sat there not knowing what to think or feel. Because of him, Nero was dead. Because of him, Rosso had been carved up like a piece of meat. He had been sick over the memory until his stomach was empty, and then a few more times even though he had nothing left. He would have liked to cry, but his tears had dried up. How long they left him sit there- hours, days - he had no idea. Eventually, a team of doctors entered and unlatched him from the chair. Leaving the manacles in place, they restrung the chains so that his neck, wrists, and ankles were all bound by the same length. He trudged along zombie-like, not knowing or caring where they were leading him. Surprise registered distantly as he realized they’d taken him to his own room. The pile of blankets and pillows had been removed from the middle of the floor. Apparently they would no longer be permitted to sleep together. Across the hall, Rosso’s room was sealed shut by a heavy steel door. When had they put that in? They had never had doors before. Evidently not only would they not be allowed to sleep together, they would not even be allowed to see each other. The doctors chained him to a ring in the wall- something he’d not needed in years- and left him, locking the door behind them. Weiss could not gather the energy to be upset or angry. Instead, he lay down on his bed and tried not to think.

At some point, the doctors returned to hose him down and stick an IV drip in his elbow. Weiss ignored it. Later, they brought him food, but he ignored that too. What was the point? The only people he’d ever cared about were gone. Azul was never coming back, neither was his brother, and Rosso might as well be dead. There were no more colored Tsviets. As far as Weiss was concerned, there was no reason to fight.

He must have fallen asleep because he awoke to someone calling his name.

“Immaculate? Weiss, Sir, are you awake?”

Weiss blinked. It was the recruit with the broken arm that he’d carried to the medical bay.

“Sir?” he asked.

Bemused, Weiss tried to sit up. There was enough slack in the chains, but his arms shivered and shook and would not support him. 

“Take it easy, Sir,” Broken Arm told him, gently pushing him back by the shoulder. “Everyone saw what happened to Sable. We weren’t sure what happened to you and Crimson, but we figured it had to be bad. You’ve been gone almost two weeks.”

Two weeks…

“Rosso,” Weiss croaked, his voice dry and scratchy.

“We’ve been looking after her, don’t worry,” Broken Arm assured him.

“We?” Weiss rasped, confused. Looking past Broken Arm, he noticed another recruit standing near the closed door. It was the JANE he’d rescued months ago. She was still alive.

“How…?” Weiss began, but dissolved into a fit of coughing. Broken Arm held a cup of water to his lips and Weiss drank it with his help.

“How did you get in?” Weiss asked once he could speak.

“Believe it or not, the doors aren’t locked, but you can only open them from the outside,” Broken Arm explained. “We have sentries watching the halls. They’ll let us know if the Restrictors are coming.”

“I couldn’t reach her anyway,” Weiss remarked, tugging lightly on his chains.

“Yeah, I see that,” Broken Arm observed. “Here, think you can eat this?” He peeled back the wrapper off a meal bar and offered it to him. Weiss just looked at it stupidly.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. 

Broken Arm shrugged. “It’s the least I can do. If you hadn’t intervened, I’d probably be dead right now.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Weiss told him. “You didn’t do anything.”

“And you, Sable, and Crimson didn’t deserve this,” Broken Arm told him. “We need you back, Sir. Without you, the Restrictors are taking a more active role in things. Three of us little guys have gotten killed since you’ve been gone, and there’s talk that they’re going to graduate the next group of kids early. Sir…” he trailed off and gave Weiss a frightened look. “We can’t do this without you.”

Weiss shook his head. “They killed Nero and hurt Rosso. I couldn’t save them. I can’t protect you.”

“Not on your own, no,” Broken Arm agreed. “But what if we stood behind you?”

Weiss just looked at him.

“Think about it,” Broken Arm went on. “They can’t kill _all_ of us. Well, okay, they _could_ , but then they wouldn't have much of an army left and they need us too badly to do that. Word is we might be mobilizing soon.”

“Mobilizing?” Weiss echoed. “Why?”

“Sephiroth.” The single word explained quite a bit. “He broke in while the Restrictors were torturing you and the others. He escaped, but now rumor has it he’s bringing the fight to Midgar.”

That was intriguing news indeed, but if Sephiroth wanted to conquer Midgar, Weiss was not inclined to stop him.

“Let him come,” Weiss muttered, turning away. “If he wants the city, he can have it.”

“Sir…” Broken Arm laid a hand on his arm. Weiss looked over, confused. The gesture was like something Jane would have done. Perhaps like a hug, it was meant to offer reassurance and comfort?

“Sir, we _need_ you to lead us,” Broken Arm pleaded. “Sephiroth thinks we’re the enemy, and the Restrictors couldn’t care less if we live or die. If you don’t, we’ll just get massacred.”

Weiss searched the young man’s earnest face and felt a warmth prickling through the numbness like heat into frostbitten fingers. Slowly, stiffly, Weiss smiled. Like Jane, Broken Arm was a good person. He deserved better than an anonymous, ignoble death as cannon fodder.

Anonymous…

“Do you have a name?” Weiss asked him.

Broken Arm smiled. “It’s Usher.” 

“Alright, Usher,” Weiss agreed, and took the meal bar from him. “I’ll fight with you.”

Maybe they wouldn’t win, maybe Sephiroth would kill all of them. After all, he’d beaten Rosso and that wasn’t easy to do. Weiss didn’t care about his own safety so much anymore. Nero was gone, and Rosso might as well be, but he wanted Usher and the JANE to survive the battle. And if he didn’t protect them, who would?

 

\--

 

Although he didn’t feel like it, Weiss ate the food the grunts brought him. He sat quietly as the doctors looked him over, and when a Restrictor came and unlatched his chains from the wall, he followed along without comment. Predictably, it led him to the training simulator. Weiss had never wanted to fight less, but he tried to think of it as practice for keeping Usher and his friend Attrice- that was the JANE’s name- safe.

Normally Argento watched him fight, but this time she was not there. Only the gunblades she’d made for him were waiting for him. Curling his fingers around the grips felt familiar, comforting. She hadn’t made these for him to kill with; she’d made them so he could defend himself, defend the grunts. The only problem was, he was only allowed them in the arena, didn’t even know where they were kept when not in use. He could not fight the Restrictors directly, but maybe he could find a way to steal back what was his?

The door hissed open behind him, and Weiss turned to see who had entered. He had expected a pack of Tsviet candidates. Instead, Rosso stood facing him. At first he thought she must be as surprised as he was, but the look of shock did not melt from her face as she stiffly walked past him and picked up her razorbolt. Her uniform hid the scar, but it was all too easy to tell that she was injured. Even if she felt no pain, she felt the loss. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her something, but no words came out. It was just as well. All four Restrictors had installed themselves at intervals around the perimeter of the arena.

“You will fight,” one of them croaked.

Weiss and Rosso just stared at each other. The look of stunned shock had not shifted on her face, else he might have thought she was as alarmed as he was. He couldn’t spar with her, not now. Not after… His mind skipped over what they’d done to her, what they’d made him watch, though it was still there, burning in his memory like acid. _Could_ she fight? Even if she could, he didn’t think the Restrictors would be content with sparring. They’d want to see blood.

Uncertain, he looked across the room at Rosso. She stood with razorbolt joined in both hands, but her stance seemed stiff and awkward. Rigid surprise etched into her features, she stared through him rather than at him. She might react, might defend herself if he attacked, but there was no way she would be able to fight. That was alright. They could still put on a show. The last couple of one-on-one matches they’d had prior to their...Punishment...had been something akin to an overclocked tickle fight. He could do that.

Giving her plenty of time to react, Weiss sank into a ready stance, gunblades poised, and circled a bit before lunging at her. He struck high, seemingly aiming for her head, and she brought her own weapon up to block him only just in time. Not daring to smile at her, he extended a finger and lightly tapped her nose. She reacted as if he’d punched her in the face, shying back and shaking off his touch like a cat shaking off water. Indeed, she hissed and took a swipe at him. Weiss danced backward, out of her immediate reach. He’d been playing, but Rosso wasn’t. 

He had hoped she might smile and try to tap him back. Although the horrible shocked expression had vanished, it had shifted into something much worse. Baring her teeth, Rosso pushed him back, following up with a sharp swing of her razorbolt. It was Weiss’ turn to wear the surprised expression, and he danced back, bringing his gunblades up only just managing to block her assault. It took him precious seconds to recover, to catch up. Not wanting to hurt her, all he could do was try to defend himself, though with all four Restrictors watching, he couldn’t avoid taking the offensive forever. Rosso saved him the trouble. Her attacks had taken on an intensity and savageness that he’d never seen before. Amid the frenzied clash of steel, one of her blades nicked him. It wasn’t much, hardly more than a scratch, but it was enough to draw blood.

It had been years since anyone had wounded him, even superficially. He was used to Rosso being faster than he was, more cunning, more clever. She’d always given as good as she got in the arena. This was the first time she’d actually, honestly, tried to kill him since they were kids; since before Azul, before they’d known better. His broken skin was proof of that. The cut had already healed, but it still burned. It wasn’t the pain so much as the intent behind it. Now he _had_ to defend himself, had to fight back.

Bringing his own swords up, Weiss tried to hold her off, to push her back. However, whatever had put the wild look in her eyes was also giving her strength. Although he managed to push their fight away from the wall and back toward the center of the arena, Weiss couldn’t seem to keep pace with her. He had always been the strongest, but she had always been the fastest. He dodged, kicked, and sliced at her with his own swords, but couldn’t connect. In the end, she hooked her foot behind his ankle and sent him sprawling on his back to the floor.

Weiss tried to launch himself to his feet, but stopped short. He couldn’t hold back the yelp- more of surprise than pain- that escaped as Rosso drove one point of her razorbolt through his forearm, pinning him to the floor. Pure reflex made him extend his already tucked-up legs- sharp and swift- kicking her in the stomach. Rosso let out her own shriek of surprise, the noise cut short as she struck the far wall and tumbled to the floor. Curling in on herself, she lay there and did not move.

Craning his neck, Weiss couldn’t tell from the tight ball of Rosso’s body whether he’d hurt her or not? Yanking at her razorbolt, he tried to pull it free, but the angle was awkward. Brute strength rather than ingenuity eventually solved the problem, but Weiss only got as far as his knees. A noise, the most horrible, earsplitting, gut-clenching thing he’d ever heard, made him freeze. It was like glass in a garbage disposal crossed with nails on a blackboard. Another noise not unlike someone trying to start a fifty-year-old engine that had never known oil joined in. A rasp of corroded metal on metal softened by battery acid soon followed. Finally, something that sounded like an open grave full of rotted bones, and the souls of the condemned began to laugh.

Laugh.

Looking around the room, Weiss came to the surreal, stomach-turning realization that the Restrictors were _laughing_. His insides turned to liquid and he sank back down onto the floor. Dear gods, this could not _possibly_ be good.

Almost without thought, he pulled Rosso’s razorbolt out of his arm. The wet warmth made him look down, away from the grotesque farce of the laughing fiends to the gaping, gushing hole in his forearm. Weiss blinked as the multicolored sparkles of a Cure spell danced around both Rosso and himself. Until that moment, he had forgotten about the white-coated doctors and scientists watching them from the observation platform. Two came down and went over to Rosso, carefully helping her up. Strangely, she didn’t fight them, unless one counted refusing to uncurl until they each lifted her under an arm. One of the others approached him, chains in hand. Weiss didn’t fight him as the doctor restrung his manacles. There was no point.

“If you’ll come with me, Sir?” the doctor asked. Casting a worried look at Rosso, Weiss reluctantly followed.

 

\--

 

Weiss let the doctors strip him, look him over, examine his arm, and stick a few needles in him. He barely noticed any of it, his head too full of just two things: the Restrictors’ laughter, and the image of Rosso curled up and shivering on the floor. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her, but knew he’d never be be given a straight answer even if he asked. When they were finished with him, the doctors dragged him like a dog on a leash down the hall and into another room. It took him a moment to recognize where he was. Once he’d figured it out, Weiss turned to protest, but the doctor had already left and shut the door behind him.

A woman lay chained and waiting on the plain mattress. He did not recognize her, but he knew the look of terror in her eyes all too well. Ever since Jane, Weiss had neglected his summons to the Breeding Program. Apparently they wanted him to make up for being absent. He didn’t see how he could possibly go through with it. Looking at the naked, kidnapped woman in front of him, Weiss felt sick. There were no windows, no cameras that he could see, but he knew from experience that someone was always watching. If he didn’t copulate, she would be punished, perhaps even killed. He had to at least try to mate with her, he could take the extra care as he had with Jane, could try to make it as painless as possible…

No. No, he couldn’t. There was no way. Except there was nothing else he could do. No matter what he did someone would get hurt, someone would die. Tears were running from the woman’s eyes and Weiss couldn’t help a small stab of envy. He would have liked to cry, but Rosso hadn’t cried. Nero hadn’t cried. He had to be as brave as they had been. Thinking of Rosso, of Nero and Azul, of what he’d lost only made the knot in his throat tighter. Fighting not to gag, Weiss desperately cast for a third option, but his only choices were to try and go through with it, or risk having them send in someone else, someone rough. Whether through biology or science, this woman would carry a baby whether she liked it or not. Looking at her, he tried to steel himself, but all he saw was Rosso laid bare to the bone. Before he could think to force it down, to swallow it back, Weiss bent double and retched.

There wasn’t much to bring up, he hadn’t managed to make himself eat earlier. Even still, the hapless Mother recoiled at the sight. Stumbling towards the door, Weiss leaned against it heavily and banged on it with one fist.

“Let me out…” he said, words coming out as more of a moan than a demand. “Please, I don’t feel well, let me out.”

The door slid open and he almost flattened the doctor standing waiting on the other side.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” the doctor asked, taking in the puddle of vomit and the still untouched Mother.

“It’s not her fault,” Weiss told her. “I can’t do this. I don’t feel well.”

The doctor eyed him for a moment more, then nodded. “Alright, but we’ll still need to take a sample.”

“Fine, just don’t hurt her?” he begged, knowing he sounded desperate but unable to do anything about it. “Promise me she won’t be punished?”

Even behind her surgical mask, the doctor looked confused. “Why would we hurt her?”

It took Weiss a moment to realize that the doctors would not be involved in the Mother’s punishment. Instead, she would suffer at the hands of the JOE’s, or perhaps one of the Restrictors. Doctors put people back together, it was soldiers who tore them apart.

“Nevermind,” Weiss said miserably, waiting as the doctor picked up the length of chain that served as his leash.

“This way, Sir,” the doctor told him. Unable to do anything else, Weiss cast an apologetic look at the Mother, catching her bemused expression before the door slid shut behind them.

 

\--

 

_Dear members of the Silver Elite,_

_It was rumored in our last update that Sephiroth might abandon Shinra, and it seems he’s finally done it! Severing all ties with the company that built him, the Silver General left and took the entire army with him! Although such devotion and loyalty to their general is not unexpected, having the remaining armed forces desert en masse must have come as a shock to President Shinra!_

_But why did Sephiroth leave? Was it because he was still angry over the death of his friend Angeal Hewley? Perhaps he had gone to look for his surviving friend, Genesis Rhapsodos? No dear members, he left for a very different reason._

_Details are still unclear, but it is true that Sephiroth’s troops have joined forces with those of AVALANCHE. This can only mean one thing: our beloved Silver General has entered into a forbidden love and has gone rogue to be with the woman he loves._

_Elfe, a wanted terrorist and the leader of AVALANCHE, has been a thorn in Shinra’s side for years. Renowned for her cunning and skill with a sword, she is as infamous as Sephiroth is famous. No doubt impressed by her strength and beauty, the Silver General was smitten. However, he could never be with her so long as he served Shinra._

_We wish him all the best, and can only hope that the object of his affections will not break his heart._

_Chairwoman H_

 

Zack blinked at the email and read it three more times to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. The last Silver Elite post had been months ago, before Sephiroth and the rest of the military had defected. Perhaps it made sense that there would be a gap between official posts, though the comments on Silver Elite’s website had exploded months ago with rumor and speculation. There were similar rumors floating about the Corel camp, though most of them were considerably more realistic. Still, he wondered how Chairwoman H had found out about Elfe so quickly? Their duel had not been secret, though few people had been around to witness it. Genesis had seen it, as had Vincent and Shears. Zack, sadly, had not borne witness himself, but had heard about it second-hand via a chew-out from Shears. Sephiroth would no doubt be getting an earful from Elfe’s second-in-command himself at some point in the very near future.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Zack remarked, passing his PHS to Aeris so she could read the entry herself. “That was _not_ a plot-twist I saw coming.”

At his elbow, Aeris smiled, amused, and took the phone. “So do you think it’s a good thing?”

“I think it’s a _great_ thing!” Zack told her with a wide smile. “The leaders of Avalanche and SOLDIER falling for each other? That is the kind of match diplomats used to kill themselves trying to arrange. That’s even better than Rufus getting betrothed to the Princess of Wutai! Sephiroth and Elfe did it all on their own!”

“I had no idea you were so interested in politics,” Aeris said with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, corporate intrigue aside, I’m happy for him. I really hope it works out, and not just because of all the political and military fallout if it doesn’t.” Looping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close. “He’s got the largest fan following, but I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend. To be fair, I dunno when he would have had the _time_ to start a relationship. It’s also kinda hard to meet people in this line of work. Sephiroth’s a great guy, but he’s not exactly Mr. Outgoing. Hell, I _am_ Mr. Outgoing and the only reason I found you was because I fell in your lap!”

Aeris giggled. “Or at least my flower bed.”

“That too,” Zack agreed. “Seriously though, I’m glad he’s finally found somebody. He _should_ have somebody. People shouldn’t be alone, you know?”

“Yeah,” she said, circling his waist with one arm and squeezing him briefly. “I know.” Sighing heavily, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” Zack asked her, rubbing her shoulder a bit.

“I’m just worried about you,” she replied. Zack blinked.

“Worried? Why?”

“Because we’ll be leaving soon, we all will. We’ll both be going to face Jenova, but you’ll be on the front lines.”

“Well, yeah,” Zack agreed. “That’s kind of what SOLDIERs do. We fight. It’ll be okay, nothing I haven’t done before.”

Aeris considered this a moment. Zack _had_ fought Jenova- twice- and walked away. However, that did not mean he would be so lucky a third time. It wasn’t right to taunt fate like that, yet soldiers did it all the time. It was their job. It didn’t make her feel any better about the looming conflict she knew was coming.

“I wish you could stay in the rear with me,” she told him. “I wish you could keep me safe yourself, but I know you can’t. You’re a Colonel with men to command, and with Sephiroth staying behind, you’ll have to take point.”

“Who said anything about Sephiroth staying behind?” Zack asked, bewildered. “He’ll be there. Where else would he be?”

 

\--

 

“I can’t be there,” Sephiroth said grimly. “Genesis can’t either, neither of us can. So long as we carry Jenova’s cells, we’re a liability to everyone. Therefore…we cannot be on the front lines with you.”

Around the table, Sephiroth was met with either grim nods or blank stares. At this point, everyone understood that he and Genesis were a risk. They’d lost control to Jenova during their last skirmish with Deepground, and the last thing they needed was an encore performance. If they were to win this, the best thing he and Genesis could do would be to hang back and command from afar. Sephiroth had promised himself he would never stoop to that sort of armchair maneuvering, but there was no way around it. Beside him, Genesis tried not to sulk. Although the younger man was even less happy about the situation, he also understood the logic.

“Very sensible,” Elfe spoke up at last, splitting the tense silence. “You can still provide strategy and directions, but it’s best to keep away from the heart of the battle until Jenova has been dealt with.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth said, the word carrying more weight than it might have otherwise. Not only had she agreed to his plan, she had approved it.

“So what are we doing?” Zack spoke up. Sephiroth allowed himself a brief smile.

“You, Commander Verdot, and the other commanding officers will lead the primary forces. We’ll be making use of the underground tunnels to walk back to Midgar. Commander Verdot informs me that we can pick up additional reinforcements at Fort Condor. From there we’ll move to Kalm. The Turks are going ahead to scout the city and to disable the automated defenses. Once we have a better idea of what we’re up against, we can move forward.”

“We’ve fought deepground once already, but urban warfare isn’t our strong suit,” Zack pointed out. “They’re going to want to do this in the city. How are we going to draw them out?”

Azul raised a massive hand. “I got an idea ‘bout that. If I may, General?”

Sephiroth nodded. “Please.”

“Ain’t nobody fightin’ for Deepground ‘cause they want to. All of us are controlled by microchip. We can’t attack the Restrictors, and we can’t disobey orders. If we can shut the chips off, every blessed one of ‘em is gonna either drop their weapon and surrender, or turn n’ start firin’ on their own commanders.”

“You mentioned that before,” Tseng remarked, “yet wasn’t that the reason you could not enter Midgar proper when you accompanied General Sephiroth to retrieve the Zirconiade shards?”

“Yessir,” Azul nodded. “I’ve got an idea ‘bout that too.”

“What is that?” Sephiroth asked.

“I want you to try to take it out.”

Now it was Azul receiving the looks of incredulous perplexity.

“Is that safe?” Elfe asked. “Haven’t you had it for a long time?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I ain’t had it as long as the kids. They’ve had one since they were just little, I signed on as an adult. Spent near twenty years underground, but only had the chip about half that long. Should be easier to dig outta me than it would be them. Once it’s out, I can help with the assault rather than sittin’ around on my duff. Er, beggin’ your pardon, Sir.”

Sephiroth did not manage to suppress a chuckle. Genesis was even less successful.

“It’s fine,” he assured the larger man. “We’ll have Shalua and the Corel doctors examine you. If it’s feasible, we can try to remove it. If not, you’ll have to wait until after we’ve deactivated the microchips before you join in.”

Azul blinked. “So you _are_ gonna send someone to shut ‘em off?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth told him. “If your surgery goes well, I’d like for you to lead the operation. Even if you can’t go yourself, we’ll need you to provide directions.”

“Alright,” Azul said with a nod. “If I can’t go, who you gonna send?”

It was one of several sixty-four-thousand Gil questions. There were few people Sephiroth would dare to send to penetrate Deepground. He would have gone himself, but because of Jenova, he didn’t dare, which meant someone else would have to lead the expedition, perhaps even go alone. There was only one other person besides Azul that might survive such an adventure, but Sephiroth hated to ask him.

“Well,” he stalled, “let’s see what the doctors have to say.”

 

\--

 

“Hold really still, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Azul stood at parade rest, the whole of his focus concentrated on the command. In front of him Shalua went through the motions of casting the spell. She had a unique way of rolling the Sense materia over her fingers as if the little yellow sphere were trying to escape her grip. Shalua squinted, lifting her glasses the better to observe the spell.

Costan male, forty-one years old, almost nine foot tall, a heart transplant of King Behemoth tissue, makou in his system- far more than the average SOLDIER- multiple injuries long healed, but the most concerning was the little square of metal and silicon set deep in the flesh at the base of his skull. Casting the spell a second time, she focused exclusively on the microchip.

It was small, no larger than a gil, and perhaps as thick. What worried her most was the short tail that led off of it like string on a yo-yo. The frayed ends of the string branched off and into his muscle, gripping the fibers likes tree roots. Disturbing them would more than likely trigger the detonator, which was what they were trying to avoid.

“Well you’re in great shape for somebody who’s spent so much time in Deepground,” she remarked, surfacing from her trance.

“And?” Azul prompted hopefully.

“And there is no way in hell I’m touching that. The way it’s been implanted, I’m positive it’ll explode if it’s disturbed. Sorry.”

He nodded, having expected such an answer. “Well, we tried.”

They had indeed. Sephiroth couldn’t help being rather disappointed himself. Well, being a general meant making hard decisions, and he had wanted to talk to Vincent anyway.

\--

 

“May I have a word?”

Vincent looked up from the array of gun parts spread out on a sheet of newspaper. Evidently he’d been in the midst of cleaning the old Death Penalty rifle. Not for the first time, Sephiroth wondered where he’d found it?

“Of course,” the Turk replied, not pausing in his work. This was not as rude as it might seem to the casual observer. A good soldier took care of his weapon, which in the case of firearms meant taking them apart, cleaning each piece individually, and putting them all back together again. It wouldn’t do to have a piece roll off the table while they talked. Sephiroth did, however, offer him a brief distraction from his work.

“I found something.” Carefully extracting the photo from his wallet, Sephiroth presented it to Vincent. Wiping his hands on a rag, Vincent took it and looked at for a long time.

“I’ll be,” he remarked at last, expression unreadable. Inwardly, Sephiroth breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure how Vincent would react to the little snapshot of Professor Hojo and Lucrecia on their wedding day. Flipping it over, Vincent’s brows creased at the cryptic note.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, handing the photograph back.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Sephiroth replied. “I have a theory, but I wanted your opinion.”

“Fire away,” Vincent told him.

“...how much of our conversation did you hear?” Sephiroth began. Vincent seemed to know by instinct what he was talking about.

“Most of it, I think,” Vincent said. “I didn’t find a good perch until after you’d come in. I was more worried about what was in his hands than what was coming out of his mouth.”

“The Professor mentioned my brothers, my cousins,” Sephiroth began. “He kept asking me if I had any interest in my family. Until I read the files that you and Veld stole, I didn’t think I had any family. I know I have three younger brothers by blood, but...I have a guess as to the cousins.”

Vincent clicked the last piece of the rifle into place. Setting it down, he turned to face him fully. “Yeah?”

“If you consider Jenova a common ancestor of sorts- and I believe the Professor did- one could argue that anyone born carrying her cells would be related.” Sephiroth explained. “I have brothers by blood, and several cousins or half-siblings through Jenova. When I confronted him, he believed that both Hewley and Genesis were dead. I think he was referring to Azul’s children.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “I can see that.”

“He said he’d planted the files, that he wanted me to find them,” Sephiroth went on. “I think in a roundabout way, he wanted me to rescue them, or at the very least lead them.”

Vincent seemed skeptical about that first bit, but did not attempt to argue with him. “Okay, so how does your mother figure into it?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Sephiroth admitted. “I was hoping you might have an idea.”

For a long moment Vincent sat silent, absorbed in his own thoughts. At last, he looked up. “If the Professor wanted you to lead Deepground, he’d need to give you a way to take control of it. That means besting the Restrictors. Everything depends on them and those microchips. If you control the chips, you control the troops.”

“He changed the passcode,” Sephiroth said, realization dawning. “He changed it to something I might be able to decipher, to something that has to do with my mother, my _real_ mother.”

“That’d be my guess,” Vincent agreed. “Even if it doesn’t, I can always blow the damn thing up. It’ll serve the same purpose.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Vincent...are you sure? I was going to ask, but you certainly don’t have to--”

“You’re not asking,” Vincent cut him off, “I’m volunteering. Besides, who else could you send?”

Sephiroth had to admit, he had a point. Even still…

“Are you _sure?_ ” he repeated.

Shaking his head, Vincent waved him off. “I want to,” he insisted. “There’s no need to worry about my demons. We’re all on the same side now. I can do this.” As if to emphasize, he tugged on the cuff that circled his left wrist. The hand protruding from the sleeve was inky black and tipped with sharp nails that more closely resembled claws.

“There’s nothing Deepground or anyone else can do to hurt me,” Vincent said, a notable lack of grimness in his voice. “Not anymore.”


	57. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Argento makes a desperate decision, Vincent faces some more metaphorical demons, and Zack and Aeris have an important discussion as a Couple.

More than the usual number of people were streaming past her forge. They were not running, which meant they were not scrambling for an attack. However, they were moving rather quickly, which was not a good sign either. Laying down her hammer, Argento fell into step with the troops moving steadily down the hall.

The flow of people swept her toward one of the galleries that ringed the central cavern that surrounded Reactor Zero. Looking down on the first level was like peering into a maze for laboratory rats. The former back gardens, factory fences, and alleys were open on top, allowing those above to view what went on below. No one seemed interested in the troops and personnel milling about on the main level. Indeed, even they seemed to have become distracted. Argento followed their gaze to one of the support columns at the far side of the cavern; what the children called ‘the Punishment Pole’. Argento felt her heart stop as she saw why: Nero hung limp from the restraints, arms stretched and body sagging. He was not moving. Worse yet, a Restrictor was exiting, following close after the other three who had someone with them. The alleyway that led into the area with the support column vanished behind the cavern wall, blocking her view of their prisoner. It could only be Weiss or Rosso, but why weren’t they making them watch? The Restrictors always made the offender watch, that was how the punishment worked.

Argento swallowed, both heart and stomach seeming to fall through the floor. She dare not run, but she elbowed her way as quickly as she could toward the lower level. There was only one point of access to the Punishment Pole, a door at the end of one of the maze-like corridors. As she reached the ground floor, she had to dart back up the stairs as all four Restrictors marched past, Weiss and Rosso each hemmed in by a pair of the black-clad fiends. Disbelieving, she stared after them. Both Rosso and Weiss. They were not even making them watch as Nero struggled to breathe. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Turning on her heel, she darted to the end of the hall and the heavy door that separated the punishment area from the rest of the floor. In vain she twisted the handle, yanked and shoved, but it would not budge. It had been locked.

The walls were too high, too far apart to climb. Climb. Racing back to the stairs, Argento ran back up to the gallery. Leaning over the edge, she tried to gauge the distance. At her side, one of the soldiers looked down as well.

“That’s what? A twenty foot drop?”

“To the floor, yes,” she agreed. “I am not aiming for the floor.”

“You’re still gonna need a hand.”

Turning her head, she looked at him. He was small for a man, perhaps only a head taller than herself. She wondered what had happened to him that he should end up down here?

“You would assist me?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I would.”

The soldier held her hands as she edged down the outer wall of the gallery, letting her dangle for a moment before letting go. Because of his assistance, the drop to the top of the walls was not as far as it might have been. Fear drove her to run, light-footed as a cat, across the tops of the roofless rooms to where Nero hung motionless.

The drop into the room jarred her legs, sending her tumbling to one side as she landed. The broken bits of metal and plastic scattered across the floor did little to cushion her fall. She barely paid the bits of shrapnel any attention until she saw the broken timer and the shattered remains of Nero’s mask.

The broken pieces crunched sickeningly underfoot as she raced to him. Legs having given out, he hung by his wrists. The front of his suit was streaked with froth and blood, more dripping from his mouth and nose. Cradling his chin in her hands, she leaned her forehead against his. Forcing herself to be calm, she tried to listen, tried to feel. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse beat slow and heavy. Not even a suggestion of breath rasped from his open mouth. He might be dying, but he wasn’t dead yet.

“Nero,” she said softly, wiping the bloody foam from his mouth with a fold of her cloak. “Nero, can you hear me?”

Eyes reduced to slits widened ever so slightly, the golden irises rolling amid the black sclera trying but unable to focus on her.

“Listen to me,” she told him urgently. “You must gather your shadows. Take us somewhere safe. You know where.”

He tried to look at her, to rouse himself, but his usually pale face was black with bruising and a lack of oxygen.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his. “Let the darkness take you. You know there is nothing to fear beyond the shadows.”

Slowly, like snakes, the shadows slithered from the corners of the room, across the floor toward them. It seemed to take ages for the darkness to condense and thicken around them. Argento held onto Nero, praying that he had enough strength left. There was a feeling like being deep underwater, deathly cold, and then…

Argento flailed a moment before she found her feet, struggling to keep her head above the surface and Nero’s below. It was pitch dark in the cavern save for the dim luminance of the makou. Despite herself, Argento smiled. He’d done it. He’d managed to warp them to the dark makou cavern. However, he still wasn’t breathing.

Without any air in his lungs to buoy him to the surface, Nero sank like a stone. She let him fall, straddling his body and pumping his chest with both hands. Black blood rose in a misty plume from his mouth each time she bore down.

“It is not your time,” she told him, breathless with the effort. “It is too soon for you to depart this life.”

As if in obedience to her words, his body shuddered and spasmed beneath her hands. He coughed, gagging on more blood. Not caring about the repairs it might require later, Argento tore at his suit, ripping it down the front. Although he had not been hit, his torso was covered in a wash of inky bruises, all of which had originated beneath his skin. His face and throat were stained a dark gray; the result of countless ruptured blood vessels. It was entirely possible he’d broken a rib. The only cure she could offer was exposure to as much dark makou as possible. Peeling the soiled, ruined suit off of him, she cradled his head against her breast as he drifted in the dark liquid.

He always came here to hide in the depths of the makou fountains after punishment. No one knew these caverns existed. Even if they had, most would have been too afraid to venture down. Humans were, after all, naturally afraid of the Dark. Stagnant makou, indeed. Dark makou still teemed with spirit energy, but it was that of the freshly departed and not of those ready to be reborn. Death did not frighten her. The body might perish, but the soul would return to the Planet. The spirit would live on in one form or another.

Without the mask, his resemblance to Weiss was more pronounced. Nero’s eyes were larger, his chin more round, but the overall facial shape was very similar. Although Weiss had her almond-shaped eyes, Nero looked more like their shared mother just as Weiss took after his unknown father. His skin shone pale in the black light of the makou, translucent gray-white spidered with countless black veins like a slab of marble. Looking down at him, his breaths came cautious and light, as if each one hurt. Which they probably did. Blood still trailed from his open mouth in a thin, black ribbon.

Unable to do much else, Argento held him steady with one hand, and stroked his hair with the other. Instinct made him huddle into her warmth and curl one arm around her. They had left him to die that time. They’d broken the timer and smashed his mask. The one advantage to this was that no one would expect him to return. He could hide here until he recovered, until she could build him a new mask, except…

The tortured breaths were becoming more shallow, more fragile, and the blood had yet to stop. A disquieting squeak accompanied every inhalation, a painful rasp each time he breathed out. Carefully, she rubbed his back. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought his ribs seemed too loose and brittle; one or more of them cracked if not broken. He was not going to last like this, and there were still Weiss and Rosso to think of. It rent her heart to think what might be happening to them, to imagine what punishment they must surely be facing, but there was nothing she could do. Her only consolation was the knowledge that the Restrictors would not kill them. 

Nero had long been considered too dangerous, too difficult to control. They must have finally decided that he was too great a liability and opted to slay him before he realized just how much power he truly had. 

Of her children, only he had the ability to escape, to hide, even if he could not breach the borders of this underground prison. That was why his captors had built him the wing-like rig to serve in places of hands and arms, and trained him to fight with pistols. Should he learn to use his shadows to their full potential, the Restrictors would soon discover that it was not possible to put a leash on Darkness. However, that would never happen if she did not do something soon.

Argento had few clear memories of what had happened concerning her own history, of how mortal and immortal had become conjoined. It had involved the loss of her eye, and a long illness. No… No, the eye had been before that; before the military, before they had preserved her cells that she might bear untainted children later. Then had come the injections of what they’d told her was makou, but had also carried something far more sinister.

Two spirits had come to share one body, and she and the mortal had kept each other alive ever since. If Nero were to live, the same must happen to him. He must have a guardian, another consciousness to protect his own. He must have a materia, and while there was one within reach, it would not be easy to get to. Carefully, gingerly, she shifted her hold on the senseless boy in her arms. It would not do to aggravate his injuries further. Arm threaded beneath one of his, she cast her cloak behind her and dove.

She had no real idea where to go except down. The dark makou pools might look like mere puddles on the surface, but even the smallest of them was miles deep. The makou gave off a soft radiance of its own, like phosphorescent moss or mushrooms, allowing just enough light to see. The silhouettes of stalagmites and other rubbish long drowned and forgotten loomed amid the purple-pink ambiance, and she either swam around them, or pushed off them for greater speed. It was not easy to swim with only one hand, and Nero dragged in her arms, his weight pulling them deeper and deeper toward the still invisible bottom.

Dark makou was made of the souls of the departed, those freshly dead and not yet ready to be reborn into new life. She could hear their many voices like whispers echoing within the vaults of a cathedral. The deeper she went, the longer she stayed submerged, the louder they would become. At present it wasn’t too bad, the muffled voices soft in her ears, though the pressure of swimming so deep was beginning to become uncomfortable. The open cistern of the makou pool narrowed as she went down, branching off into dozens of tunnels. The bedrock was riddled with such aquifers, all interconnected within the bowels of the earth. One of these led to a different, much larger makou well, and it was that pool to which she must somehow make her way through the darkness.

Argento did not fear the dark. What was the Dark but an absence of light? Nothing hid in the shadows that had not already been there in the sun. It was not the darkness that frightened her, but the slowing, painful breaths of the boy in her arms. The whispers had become shouts inside her head, the many voices pressing on her brain like the pressure in her ears.

_‘Poor boy…’_

_‘What are they doing down here?’_

_‘Can we help him?’_

_‘He’ll be like us soon, they both will…’_

_‘What can be done for him?’_

_‘Nothing. We can only welcome him among us…’_

Lost in the dark in the worm holes and tunnels, Argento feared they were right. Nero would perish, his soul joining the others that made up the dark makou. She, however, would lose herself to their thoughts and feelings, neither dead nor living. Unless…

“I seek the God of Death,” she gasped, struggling to speak despite the noise. “He who guards the gate that separates the Living from the Dead! I seek the resting place of Lord Omega!”

The many voices murmured and mumbled amongst themselves.

 _‘Down,’_ one spoke up. _‘You must go down.’_

 _‘Yes, down,’_ the rest were quick to agree. _‘Down, down, down…’_

“Is it far?” she asked, struggling to swim while still pulling Nero’s inert body.

 _‘Down,’_ the voices echoed. _‘To your right, this way…’_

“Thank you,” she panted, gritting her teeth against the pressure building steadily in her head.

Down, down, and further down she went. It was like trying to swim through gelatin, the deeper she went. Although it made it difficult to swim, it was reassuring. The congealed makou meant that she was getting close.

A dim glow lit the far end of the narrow tunnel. Pushing toward it, she stopped short at a sudden stab of pain through her missing eye, and an electrical jolt at the back of her neck. Nero jerked in her arms, the electrical warning from his own microchip making him spasm in pain. Although she hated to see him suffer, at least she knew that he was still alive.

Microchip burning at the base of her skull, she edged toward the mouth of the tunnel. What seemed like miles below lay a massive pile of indigo crystals. Amid the spears and facets, an enormous materia lay like an egg in its jagged nest.

 _Omega,_ Argento thought. The Lord of Death, Bearer of Souls was Nero’s only chance for survival. Once, long ago, many possessed of the Planet’s will had walked the earth. They had carried materia within their bodies, and had been servants of Gaia, just as she was. If Nero was to survive, he must become one as well. How she was to get him to the massive stone, however, was still a problem. Edging back from the mouth of the tunnel eased the burning sensation caused by the microchip, which meant they must be on the edge of the electric fence.

Craning her neck, she could just make out the lowest edges of the reactor’s makou well, so far above that the gaping hole looked no larger than the eye of a needle. They would only have one chance, and it would all depend on how quickly she could swim.

Blood no longer trailed from Nero’s mouth, but he drew no breath that she could detect. Beneath her fingers, his pulse beat slow and heavy like the toll of a bell. He could not wait any longer.

“I love you, my son,” she murmured into his hair, and kissed his head. “Know that.”

Taking a deep breath, she pushed off from the wall and dove toward the materia. At once a red-hot jolt of pain shot down her spine. There was no one to hear her, so she did not bother to stifle her scream. Kicking and clawing the gelatinous liquid seemed to gain her no ground. Her nerves burned, pain arcing across each fiber like lightning across a downed power line. The makou was too thick; she could not breathe. Surely her skull would burst before they reached the materia. Grabbing Nero’s hand, she stretched, their fingertips just brushing the surface of the stone.

 _Omega, my brother,_ Argento thought, _receive my son that his life may not be wasted._

There was a flash of silver light, a blast of pain, and then everything went Dark.

 

\--

 

Sephiroth had walked this route not long ago, but nothing looked familiar. At the time, he’d had only Azul and a few Turks with him. Now, ninety percent of the combined Shinra and Avalanche forces walked behind him. The green-coated walls of the makou aquifer made their footsteps echo as if thousands and not hundreds were marching deep beneath the earth’s surface. SOLDIERs made up only a fraction of their numbers, and so the pace had to be slower, and interspersed with regular breaks. Their progress seemed agonizingly slow to him, but he could see many of the infantry, Avalanche, and recruits from Corel prison struggling just to keep up. Elfe approached him during one of these breaks, a grim look on her face.

“To think this once used to be filled with makou,” she said quietly. “I knew it was bad. Zircon’s been lamenting what reactors were doing to the Planet for years, but this...” She shook her head, unable to articulate further.

“I agree,” Sephiroth told her. “If it makes you feel any better, Azul tells me these are a recent development, but it does give you a new appreciation for how much harm a makou reactor can cause.”

“You’ll help me shut them down, right?”

Looking down into her concerned expression, Sephiroth couldn’t decide if she was still worried that he’d stab her in the back- figuratively or otherwise. She’d already taken a huge risk in trusting him. Despite their kiss, there were still largely strangers to each other. Hopefully they’d get to do something about that later.

“I will,” he told her. “I want to help you find a way to reverse the damage that Shinra’s done. I’m no engineer, but I want to assist any way I can.”

“I believe you,” she said simply. 

“Was Avalanche Zirconiade’s idea?” he asked, horrified that he’d somehow managed to speak the question aloud. Elfe, however, just smiled.

“I’d be lying if I said ‘no’,” she admitted. “She’s been in the back of my head since Professor Hojo put the shard in my hand. I used to think she was my fairy godmother. I didn’t understand what she really was until I was older. It was Bugenhagen that changed my mind, him and Fuhito.”

“I’m sorry…” Sephiroth said awkwardly.

Elfe shook her head. “I wasn’t looking for an apology. That was the Turk’s fault, not yours. You don’t have to say you’re sorry every time I mention Fuhito.”

“Were you close?” he asked.

“We never dated,” she replied, shaking her head. “He had a crush on Zircon more than he did me. Both him and Shears appointed themselves honorary big brothers. I’m pretty sure Shears has a thing for me, but he also knows it could never work. He’s never pushed the issue, for which I’m grateful.”

Beside her, Sephiroth shifted awkwardly, unsure if he’d intruded on a potential relationship or not.

“He’s my best commander and a good friend,” Elfe spoke up, as if reading his thoughts. “But I don’t feel that way about him. We work well together, but we could never be more than that, and I think he knows it. So if he corners you later and reads you your rights about treating me like a lady, that’s why.”

Sephiroth couldn’t help smiling at that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Briefly taking his hand, she smiled and squeezed his fingers before returning to her own troops.

 

\--

 

There were hundreds of forks, offshoots, side-tunnels, and blind alleys that led off of the main thoroughfare of the makou aquifer. Azul had led them on a straight and sure path along the widest artery. However, they eventually came to an exceptionally large “Y” in the tunnels. Here, he stopped and turned.

“Deepground’s back that way,” he said pointing to the left. “Keep followin’ the stench of sour makou till you think you’re gonna gag. The rock’ll start to go bare, and then you’ll proll’y start gettin’ shot at. The lead starts flyin’, you’ll know you’re there.”

Vincent, back in his black uniform and draped in the red cloak, nodded silently. Sephiroth looked over at him, but the older man was as straight-faced and inscrutable as ever. He would have liked to say goodbye, to warn Vincent to be careful, but the entire combined forces of Shinra and Avalanche were watching. Elfe glanced at them and signaled to Shears.

“Let’s keep moving,” she said, waving the troops on. Sephiroth would have liked to kiss her, but settled for a smile at her retreating back. When he turned to face Vincent again, the Turk was hiding his own smile behind his high collar.

“Felicia’s a good girl,” Vincent commented lowly, his words almost lost amid the tramp and stamp of so many booted feet going past. “You be good to her; she’ll be good to you.”

For a second, Sephiroth floundered for something to say. The remark had caught him off guard and he found himself without a reply. Vincent, however, did not seem to expect one. Turning to Azul, he asked:

“Anything else I should know?”

Azul considered the floor for several minutes before shaking his head. “Don’t be a hero,” he said at last. “Much as I’d like you to spring my kids, gettin’ everybody free of the Restictors is more important. You do that, the place is yours. Don’t try nothin’ till after the troops’re free n’ the Restrictors are dead.”

Vincent nodded. “I’ll remember.”

“We’ll check in with you periodically via PHS,” Sephiroth reminded him. “Keep it on silent and in your pocket, not on your belt clip, so you can feel it vibrating. Tseng said the connection wasn’t great, but it was workable. I’m hoping we won’t lose communication with you, but if we do, just do what you have to.”

It felt as if more ought to be said, but for the life of him, Sephiroth could not think of anything that wouldn’t sound needy or childish. Vincent deserved to be sent off like a soldier. He needed to think that Sephiroth fully believed he could do this, and that they would all come back safe, no matter the twisting sensation in Sephiroth’s gut.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Sephiroth told him, offering his hand. Azul was still watching, and while the big man probably wouldn’t care if he were to hug Vincent, Sephiroth still felt a bit awkward. Vincent accepted his hand and shook firmly, reinforcing the gesture by grasping Sephiroth’s wrist with his other hand.

“I won’t,” Vincent promised. Sephiroth fully realized he hadn’t promised not to do anything crazy, but forcing such a vow would limit his mission in ways that were neither fair nor realistic. Despite the worry already cramping his stomach Sephiroth smiled, dropped Vincent’s hand, and fell into step with the rest of the troops.

 

\--

 

Vincent had never been afraid of the dark. He still wasn’t. After thirty years trapped in a coffin, however, claustrophobia had become the latest in a series of situations that could trigger a panic attack. Fortunately, Gallian did not mind the depth of the makou aquifer, and Chaos knew the veins and arteries of Gaia as if he’d crafted them himself.

 _I didn’t, though,_ the demon commented. _We did not make this planet, we merely protect it. In the beginning, before your kind came, we played above and below Gaia like children in a park. The Dark is my domain, and these tunnels once carried what you call Light makou. I never swam in these caverns, but my brothers and sisters did._

The sound of Sephiroth and the troops had long since faded into silence. Ideally, they should each arrive at Midgar around the same time. Vincent would infiltrate Deepground and shut off the microchips while Sephiroth- well, Zack- and the army engaged Deepground. It would be one hell of a distraction, and hopefully they would not need to keep it up for long. If Azul were to be believed- and Vincent did not doubt that the big man was telling what he thought was the truth- it had the potential to be a very short skirmish indeed.

Shutting off the microchips would stop the fighting. Once things had calmed, Aeris would summon her Healing Rain a second time and cleanse the troops of Jenova’s influence. That would leave Jenova with nowhere to turn. Elfe and Zirconiade would strike the final, fatal blow and the planet would at last be rid of the legendary Crisis from the Skies. In theory, anyway. There were still a number of things that could go wrong, but they were planning a battle, not staging a heist. In case of a heist, one tried to have as many backup and escape plans as possible. Warfare, apparently, was somewhat different. One could only plan so far, and a great deal depended on what the enemy might or might not do. Vincent wasn’t terribly concerned about Deepground or Jenova, not the way Chaos was. Instead, he was more concerned about Sephiroth.

He might not be book-smart the way his father and brother had been, but Vincent was no fool. As Chaos he had watched the bodies of the Deepground soldiers melt away beneath the holy downpour of Aeris’ Healing Rain. Both Sephiroth and Genesis had been born carrying Jenova’s DNA. How they had survived the last battle, no one had told him, but he wasn’t sure they would be so lucky this time. Ever since then he’d been trying to come up with with a scheme that might eradicate Jenova yet allow the boys to live.

 _They are of her blood,_ Chaos reminded him not unkindly. _It would be a shame to lose such fine warriors, but they are tainted, unclean. Can you extract a mother’s blood from that of her son? Can you pick out the bone and sinew that belongs to the father? One cannot unmake flesh without destroying it._

 _There’s got to be a way,_ Vincent insisted. _I cannot let him die._

 _It may be his time,_ the demon shrugged. _If it is, there will be little you can do about it._

_And if it’s not?_

Chaos seemed amused. _Continue your scheming then. If nothing else, the centuries have taught me that the best way to ensure a human will accomplish the impossible is to tell him it cannot be done._

 

\--

 

The makou aquifer let out onto open green plains not far from the old mythril mines. Everyone was glad to be above-ground and under the open sky. More than one person had become jittery and claustrophobic from so much time underground. Sephiroth couldn’t help stretching a bit- rolling his shoulders and extending his wing- to shake off the cramped, enclosed feeling. He didn’t know how the people of Corel did that all day, every day. Striking off toward the stone spires where the condors made their home, Sephiroth thought over what he would say to the chief. Elfe, being on more familiar terms with the locals, would do most of the talking, but she had assured him they would find a warm welcome there.

Apparently, word had got around. Both Sephiroth and Elfe had expected to rest for perhaps the space of a day and to resupply stores and troops. They had not expected to find the place crammed with what appeared to be refugees.

“When did this happen?” Elfe asked when at last they were shown to the chief.

“About two weeks ago,” the headman told them. Sephiroth noted that would have been immediately after he’d broken into the Shinra building. “Everyone who can squeeze through a hole in the wall’s gettin’ the hell outta town. Can’t say that I blame them, what with Deepground troops runnin’ around and the whole city under curfew.”

“But why are they coming so far?” Sephiroth asked. “Surely Kalm would be closer?”

“It is. It’s also full to the brim,” the chief said. “Ain’t no more room for anybody else.”

Mentally, Sephiroth swore. Elfe continued the conversation largely without him, agreeing to pay handsomely for supplies and troops. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have the money. While they talked, Sephiroth’s thoughts churned. This was not how he would have liked this to go.

“What’s up?” Elfe asked him as they left the bargaining table.

“We can’t occupy Kalm,” Sephiroth told her, still plotting scenarios in his head. “We’re going to have to run straight in. I was hoping we’d be able to draw them out, force them to come to us, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to do that.”

“People evacuating means fewer civilian casualties,” Elfe put in by way of a bright side. “Though most of them are going to be from the plate. I doubt anyone from the slums has the resources to go far.”

“No,” Sephiroth agreed. “We’ll assume the slums are still fully occupied by civilians for now. If we can stay above-plate so much the better. We can launch a same-day attack, we’ll just have to do our preparing here.”

“Have you spoken to Vincent yet?” she asked.

Sephiroth shook his head. “I texted him, and he did reply, but he’s not used to cell phones. The message he sent me was gibberish, and I’m reasonably sure it’s not some sort of secret code.”

Elfe chuckled at that. “You should call him. Make sure he’s alright. If we’re going to have to do this all at once, he ought to know.”

“I will,” Sephiroth said with a nod. “We’ll do it in waves,” he decided. “Send the Turks in first to scout, like we planned originally. Rather than wait for a report, we’ll send the first wave after them a few hours later. I’m going to call Scarlet and Heidigger, see if there’s any additional internal support we can hijack. After the first wave has gone in, we can send the next, and so on. I won’t put our secret weapon anywhere near the front until after Vincent’s disabled the microchips.”

Elfe nodded. “I like it. Send Avalanche in with the first wave. We’re good at urban combat. We can show your troops what to do.” 

“We’ll make sure each unit is a mix of both. I don’t want to put anyone at a disadvantage.”

“And what about you?” she asked. “What are you and Colonel Rhapsodos going to do?”

“Hang back until it’s over,” he said miserably. “Unless there’s a way to use us as bait to draw out Jenova. I don’t want to risk being puppeted again. You and Zack will have enough to worry about without the possibility of the two of us losing it.”

“So will you stay here or move up to Kalm?”

“I’ll go as far as Kalm, maybe the city limits,” he told her. “I want to be able to intervene if I need to.”

Elfe was looking up at him, studying his face in a way that was making his cheeks burn.

“What?” he asked.

“You didn’t answer my question, not really. You were both born with Jenova’s DNA. What are you going to do about _you?_ ”

“I...don’t have an answer for that,” he shrugged. Elfe’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes you do. I just won’t like it.”

“No, you won’t.”

There was a long and uncomfortable pause during which Elfe searched his face and Sephiroth had to force himself not to look away.

“Okay,” she said at last. “You don’t have to tell me, but you’ve always given me a straight answer before this. Don’t start lying to me now.”

“I won’t,” Sephiroth promised. “I just…” Words. There were words around here somewhere. He was spared from having to answer further as Zack came up.

“‘Scuse me, Sir, Ma’am,” he said, saluting to both of them in turn. “Where d’you want the new guys?”

 

\--

 

It went like that the rest of the day, rushing about, giving orders, arranging people and supplies, even helping those seeking refuge at the fort to organize themselves a little better. The unspoken pressure of time gave everyone a sense of urgency, making everyone run when they would have walked, work with purpose when they might have otherwise taken their time. Everyone was tired by the end of the day, but almost no one would be able to sleep.

Although he was exhausted, Zack was too wound-up to try to rest. He and the other SOLDIERs were beginning to feel the effects of makou withdrawal, not to mention the side-effects of losing Jenova. Although he was glad to be rid of the alien parasite, he’d noticed that he got tired more quickly than he used to. He wasn’t quite as fast or as strong as he’d once been. It was humbling to realize how much of his power had come from the same creature who had killed Aeris’ ancestors.

It was long after sunset when he finally got a chance to sit down and breathe. Sephiroth and Elfe had gone up onto the mesa, ostensibly to further discuss plans for the assault on Midgar. Unless that was some sort of euphemism, Zack didn’t believe that for a second. Wanting to give them some time on their own, Zack planted himself at the base of the rough, stone staircase that led up the observation deck and laid his Buster sword across his knees. He’d kept it razor sharp, but hadn’t been able to polish it as much as Angeal would have liked. The unsharpened edge had taken on an unquestionable patina and Zack was pretty sure his late commander would have disapproved.

“Hey.”

Looking up, Zack noticed Aeris standing in the doorway.

“Hey!” he said, laying the sword aside. “What’re you still doing up?”

“What are _you_ doing?” she asked, coming over and plunking down not on the step next to him, but on his knees where the sword had lain only moments ago. Zack blinked at that, but did not object, putting an arm around her to hold her steady.

“Guard duty,” he told her. “Boss and Bossette are planning strategy. Figured I’d make sure they weren’t interrupted.”

“Strategy is very important,” Aeris agreed with a nod, apparently as convinced as he was regarding Sephiroth and Elfe’s excuse. “He’s lucky to have you. I’m lucky too.”

Stretching, she kissed him. Zack smiled, kissing her back. He’d done his share of flirting, but Aeris was the first woman about which he’d ever thought of having a serious relationship. Apparently they’d reached a new milestone. He had expected it to stop there, for her to lean her head on his shoulder as she sometimes did. Aeris, apparently, had other ideas. They’d only made out a couple of times before this, though it hadn’t been anything super involved. He was slightly terrified of Aeris’ mother, and there were other reasons to keep their clothes on.

As a SOLDIER, he’d had a couple of women not-so-subtly throw themselves at him. He’d sat through Lazard’s come-to-Alexander lecture about either keeping it in his godsdamned pants, or for Ifrit’s sake using protection. There was also the infamous incident at the Honeybee Inn during the early years of the SOLDIER program. Apparently Shinra hadn’t been as involved then with their SOLDIERs amorous escapades as they were now. Virtually every Bee on staff had wound up pregnant inside the space of a month, and none of them had been amused by this. Lawsuits begot policy changes, and now all SOLDIERs were thoroughly warned that if they engaged in unprotected sex, they should expect to pay child support. 

Aeris, however, hadn’t heard any of the lectures, and Lazard’s words were growing distant in Zack’s mind as she dotted a trail of kisses up the side of his neck. Normally he was the one skirting the edge of what was appropriate, trying to show her how he felt without pushing his luck too far. Now it was Aeris running her delicate fingers over his muscles, nuzzling his throat with her nose, her body pressed as close to his as she could manage. Catching her chin in one hand, he held her still long enough to kiss her while her lips were parted. This time, she didn’t shut her teeth against him.

Pulling back, she repositioned so that she was sitting astride his legs, her skirt shrugging in long drapes above her knees. That was a lot more leg than Aeris usually displayed and he reached to tug the hem down a bit. Aeris caught his hand, setting it on her leg and drawing it up under her skirt. Well now. Zack let his hand drift a bit higher and blinked. He was no expert, but he’d been under the impression that women by and large wore a lot more layers than men. Aeris scooted closer, nudging her hips against his, making him inhale sharply. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have any problem with where this was headed but...

“Aeris…” Zack stammered, half-convinced he was reading this wrong, that this was not actually happening, “are you _sure_ about this? Really sure? Really, really, _really_ sure?”

“I want this,” she repeated, arms looped around his neck, forehead pressed to his. _In case you don’t come back…_ the words echoed in his mind as if she’d spoken them out loud. He still wasn’t used to being able to hear her like that.

“I’ll come back,” he promised. “But if I didn’t… Aeris you _know_ what makou does to a guy, right? I don’t want to leave you alone with a baby.”

“At least I’d have part of you with me.”

“Aeris,” Zack said, lifting his hands from her waist to her shoulders. “Look at me.”

She did, opening her eyes and leaning back.

“I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “You can’t know.”

“And neither can you, unless the Planet knows something I don’t?”

That made her smile. “No, nothing like that.”

“Far be it for me to turn you down, because believe me I would _love_ a full send-off, but...I’m not quite ready to be a dad. I do want to be a dad someday, hopefully to your mom, but I wanna do this right. I haven’t talked to your mom. I haven’t had a chance to plan a properly romantic setting or buy a ring. Not to blow the surprise, I totally plan on doing all that, but we’ve got to take care of Eye-Boob first.”

That made her giggle and he smiled back.

“Well,” she said, blushing prettily, “will you at least let me kiss you goodbye?”

Zack shook his head. “Not goodbye, but you can give me a kiss for good luck .”

“Just one?” she teased and it was Zack’s turn to blush. Despite the heat burning his cheeks, he gave her a rakish grin.

“I wasn’t planning on keeping count.”


	58. Out of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which goodbyes are said, help arrives unexpected, and Vincent squares off with some old enemies.

“So what’s the plan that I won’t like?”

Sephiroth balked, opening his mouth, finding no words, and closing it before making a second attempt. “It's a backup plan,” he said evasively, coming over to join her at the railing, “in case I lose it again.”

“Okay,” Elfe nodded, looking up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“...what do you remember about the last battle with Jenova?” he asked her.

“Zircon and I had a hell of a time keeping you away from Aeris, so I was kind of busy. Also, I may have fainted shortly after concussing you…”

“Do you remember what the Healing Rain did to me?”

“You…had spots,” she said slowly as she pulled up the memory. “They were like mine, as if you had Geostigma.”

“When I woke up, they were gone, but I had this,” Sephiroth said, picking up the narrative. Edging the joint through the rent in his coat, he extended his wing. “I’m not sure why I only got one. Either way, Zack told me that the Healing Rain cleansed the Jenova cells from the bloodstreams of all the SOLDIERs, himself included. However, Genesis and I reacted differently, probably because we were conceived with Jenova’s DNA.”

Elfe nodded. “Yeah, you mentioned. So you’re half alien space parasite and half human. Doesn’t your human half count for something?”

“Technically, I’m only one-third alien parasite,” he corrected her.

“Even better.”

Sephiroth shifted awkwardly, tucking his wing close. “You would think so, but… Shaula tried to treat me and Genesis with the rain water. She accidentally spilled some on me.” He shuddered remembering the way the water had eaten through his skin. “It _burned_ ,” he told her, voice low. “I don’t mean like peroxide or iodine. It dissolved my skin where it splashed me as if it were acid, not water. It _hurt_. I recovered almost at once, but I’m not sure I would have if I’d tried to drink it.”

Elfe was very quiet for a moment. “Well,” she said at last, “you were going to hang back from the front lines anyway. Can’t we just make sure you’ve got an umbrella?”

Sephiroth couldn’t help smiling at that, though the expression was short-lived.

“I’m commanding from the rear in case Jenova tries to puppet me again. Even if we cleanse or kill all of Deepground, that still leaves me and Genesis. We’ll be the only vessels she has left, and it’ll take more than a smack upside the head to stop us.”

With a sigh, he looked away. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose myself to her will. I don’t want to risk hurting the people I care about…”

He started slightly, shying back before he realized Elfe had reached to turn his face toward her with one hand.

“I’m not going to let that happen,” she told him. Sephiroth swallowed hard, feeling the prickle of Zirconiade’s power even through Elfe’s glove. The guardian summon must not have told Elfe about their bargain. Perhaps Zircon had assumed he would tell her himself? However, looking down into Elfe’s eyes- as dazzling a blue as any SOLDIER’s- he could not bring himself to confess what he’d done.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “I’ve never been afraid of death. What I am afraid of is...losing you. All of you. Everyone. I’ve never had so many friends and I’m not ready to leave all of you behind, but even that would better than...”

He could not finish. Closing his eyes against the hot sting of threatening tears, he he laid his hand over hers, pressing it to his cheek. 

“I _won’t_ let that happen,” Elfe repeated, voice soft yet fierce. “If it comes to it…” Here she paused, swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “I won’t let you suffer.”

Sephiroth struggled for words, but found none. Instead, he gathered her to him, his wing folding around her along with his arms. He could feel her cheek pressed against his chest, just above the crossed straps that held his pauldrons in place. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought her lashes felt damp. However, when she stepped back, her face was dry.

“Would you let me do something?” she asked, and it was the first time he’d heard a note of hesitation in her voice.

“Alright,” he agreed, having no reason to mistrust her.

Taking him by the hand, she pulled him over to a rough wooden bench and sat down.

“Would you mind?” she asked, hand poised to stroke his hair.

Sephiroth found himself fighting not to blush. “Go ahead.”

Stripping off her gloves, Elfe lightly ran her fingers over the long strands that hung down his back.

“I dunno how you manage all this,” she said, gathering a lock in her hands. “My hair’s already starting to drive me nuts and it barely reaches my shoulders.”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I’ve always had it long. I’m used to it.”

“You know, Cosmo Canyon has a reputation for being full of pacifists,” she began, “but at one time, those who defended the Canyon were known as the fiercest warriors on Gaia. The funny thing is, they truly do abhor bloodshed. However, they will fight to the death to defend those they love.”

Combing through his hair with her fingers, she separated the strands into four equal parts.

“To remind them of what they’re fighting for, each warrior is bound to the earth and water, blood and spirit from which they came. They are given a cord to tie them to what they hold most important, a band to bind them body and spirit, a charm to give them strength, a talisman to protect them from harm.”

Sephiroth had had a number of fans attempt to pull out strands of his hair as souvenirs. However, he felt only the slightest tug as Elfe wove his hair between her fingers into a narrow plait.

“Gaia and everything in it share one spirit: that which runs, that which flies, that which swims. Each rock and tree shares the same breath, the same blood. From Gaia we are born, to Gaia we will return,” Elfe said quietly, binding off the braid with a white thread pulled from the hem of her cloak and a black thread from the lining of his jacket. Yanking a button from the breast pocket of her shirt, she knotted it tightly to the end of the braid. “May Gaia protect you until you return to her embrace.”

“I’m not sure Gaia would want to protect me,” Sephiroth observed.

“Gaia does not get a choice,” Elfe replied firmly.

The plait was long enough that he could pull it over his shoulder to admire her handiwork. She’d bound it in such a way that he wasn’t likely to pull it out by accident. Indeed, he wasn’t sure he could get it out at all without cutting the threads. Elfe’s plait hung down just in front of her left ear, but she’d begun his braid at the nape of his neck so that it would not be easily noticeable unless he chose to display it.

“Thank you,” he told her sincerely.

“I didn’t want you to fight unprotected,” she said quietly, taking the braid by the button and tucking it behind his shoulder, beneath the rest of his hair. “I want to see you come back alive, unharmed, and in your right mind. But if that’s not possible… We both know that death is better than torture. I want you to know that I won’t leave you to suffer behind enemy lines.”

“No,” Sephiroth told her, reaching and pulling her close with one arm, his wing mirroring the movement and folding around her shoulders. “That’s not something I would ever ask of you.” He had asked it of Zircon, at the time believing that it was different asking the force of nature to put him down like a rabid animal, that she was somehow separate from Elfe though they shared the same body. It wasn’t fair or right to ask so much of either of them.

Elfe did not reply, but threaded her arm beneath his to twine around his waist.

“I would have liked to get to know you better,” she said softly into the darkness.

Almost reflexively, he tightened his arm around her a little, thumb stroking over her shoulder. “Me too.”

 

\--

 

This was not ideal. Even from this distance, it was easy to see that the walls of Midgar were bristling with artillery. When that had been installed, Sephiroth had no idea. Obviously it must have happened while they were in Corel, but _still_. He wondered if Scarlet and Heidigger had been able to come up with the additional firepower they’d mentioned?

“Brilliant,” Genesis remarked.

“So much for drawing them out and keeping the battle above Plate,” Elfe added.

“Nevermind,” Sephiroth told them. “We’ll just have to go with Plan B.”

“There’s a Plan B?” Zack asked. As if on cue, a squad of Gelnikas screamed past overhead.

“INCOMING!” Zack cried, preparing to run. Sephiroth, however, caught his shoulder. Zack stared at his commander, dumbstruck, and then turned to look as the deafening concussion of several bombs shook the ground they stood on. Behind a massive cloud of dust, a huge chunk of Midgar’s city wall crumbled as if made of dry clay. Beneath the noise, Sephiroth’s PHS went off.

“Yes?” he said, covering his other ear with one hand.

“They’re all yours, boys!” Scarlet’s voice was clearly audible through the speaker now that the noise of the blast had faded. “We’ve got you covered from above. Give ‘em hell!”

Despite himself, Sephiroth smiled. “Yes Ma’am.” Pocketing his phone, he turned to the others. “You heard her, go!”

They went, Elfe pausing only long enough to yank him down by his lapel and touch her lips to his. Zack, already on the run, did not notice. To his credit, Genesis blinked, but kept his mouth shut.

“So now what?” he asked as the first wave of their combined forces charged through the rift in the wall. On the point of replying Sephiroth looked up, the wind suddenly kicking up, blowing their coat tails in a virtual gale force.

“Bahamut’s tail,” Genesis gaped. “Is that…?”

It was. Sephiroth couldn’t help the wide grin stretching across his face as the airship descended. He only waited until the deck was within range before vaulting over the railing, Genesis right behind. Scarlet was waiting for them. Dressed in a bomber jacket and trousers, Sephiroth almost didn’t recognize her.

“Cavalry’s here, boys,” she said, smiling widely. Although both Sephiroth and Genesis stood head-and-shoulders over her, she pulled each of them into a fierce hug before leading them inside.

“I know the two of you were concerned about putting some distance between yourselves and Jenova. Is 25,000 feet enough?”

Sephiroth could have hugged her again. Not only would this keep them out of range of Jenova’s influence, but would also allow them to monitor the battle.

“It’s perfect,” he told her sincerely.

“Thank Captain Highwind,” Scarlet replied, nodding to the man at the helm.

“Sir,” the Captain said, nodding in salute and keeping both hands on the wheel.

“Thank you for the use of your ship,” Sephiroth said, nodding in turn. Further conversation was halted as the Gelnikas tore past in the other direction.

“Are we capable of providing additional fire?” he asked.

The Captain maneuvered the stub of an unlit cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other and pushed up his goggles. “Sure. Got bombs an’ long-range guns fore an’ aft.”

“Take us in closer,” Sephiroth ordered. “I want to see what’s going on and provide some cover for those breaching the wall.”

“Aye, Sir,” the Captain replied and spun the wheel.

 

\--

 

When the klaxon sounded, it took Weiss a moment to realize what it was. They were scrambling for battle. Azul and Argento were gone, and Nero was dead. That left him and Rosso to command the troops. How Rosso was going to manage, he had no idea. Maybe she’d feel better if she could take her anger out on a few of Sephiroth’s men?

The prospect of going Outside should have been exhilarating, but Weis couldn’t gather the energy to be excited. Indeed, he had half a mind to throw down his swords as soon as he went through the door and let the first rookie with a weapon have his moment of glory. But there was Rosso to think of, and the grunts, and Nero and Azul wouldn’t want him to give up so easily.

Weiss suited up as much as he ever did, donning the few extra pieces of armor that he bothered with, and was presented with his swords. He resolved this would be the last time he would let anyone- Sephiroth, Restrictor, or otherwise- take them away from him.

There was not actually enough room in the area around Reactor Zero for everyone to assemble, and so they mustered in the tunnels that led up to the surface. None of those were large enough for more than one unit, so Weiss and his men gathered in one, Rosso and her people in another. Turning his back to the waiting blast doors, Weiss surveyed his troops. It was so strange to see them as individuals, their shapes and stances setting them apart from each other despite the masked helmets and uniforms meant to make them look identical. Usher stood near the front, his height and stance and a chip out of his shoulderpad making him distinguishable from the rest. Attrice and a handful of other women were scattered throughout- mostly marked by the dips and gaps in the rows of soldiers because they were considerably shorter than the others in ranks.

He could name almost everyone present, and several more who were not because they belonged to different units- Azul’s, Rosso’s, Nero’s, and the other commanding officers. When had he learned to care? When had he begun to fear for their safety? How was he going to make sure they all came back alive because dammit, he _wanted_ them to survive this even if he did not? Already he could feel the microchip burning at the base of his skull, the Restrictor’s words echoing unpleasantly inside his head:

_You will fight._

Yes, he would fight, he decided, squaring his shoulders and pulling his gunblades from their sheaths. They would all fight. The Restrictors had ordered violence, but had not specified why. They would fight for their freedom, for their safety, for escape. Gods help him, he was going to see that every last person in Deepground was set free even if it killed him. If he was lucky, maybe it would.

“Once we go out that door, we are not coming back,” Weiss heard himself say, his words echoing down the tunnel. “If you die, die in the sunlight, but do not return to darkness! This is the last day we will spend underground!”

The resounding cheer made him jump slightly, and despite himself, he smiled. His men- his people- were with him. The heavy metal doors slid back, and he charged forward unafraid. He had his answer now, as to how they would get out of this mess:

_Together._

 

\--

 

The telltale stench of sour makou got worse the longer he went on. Indeed, it didn’t smell sour so much as rotten. Fermented. Putrid. As Azul had said it would, the hard candy shell of makou coating the walls of the tunnel gradually thinned and then dissolved altogether, leaving wet, bare rock. So far no one was shooting at him, but he didn’t expect that to last. Gallian kept testing the stagnant air for signs of life. Although the makou stench became worse, the air itself became less heavy, the subtle drift of currents of warm and cool just barely detectable.

Strangely enough, there were no sentries- at least not any looking out into the tunnels. There were guards, certainly, but they stood facing in, their backs to the yawning darkness. He didn’t particularly want to shoot them, and the noise would no doubt draw all sorts of unwanted attention. Perhaps Sephiroth and the others had not yet launched their assault on Midgar?

 _Suggestions?_ he asked those assembled inside his head.

Masuka shuddered somewhere deep, making him shiver as well. As if remembering it himself, he watched a path unfold before him, leading past the guards and into the heart of Deepground toward Reactor Zero. It was useful knowledge, but they still had to get past the initial obstacle of the two minions barring his way.

Without warning, an alarm began to blare and red lights flash. The two guards looked up and Vincent seized upon their moment of surprise, diving forward between them. They did not even look over. Instead they ran toward the heart of the cavern, weapons poised. Silently, Vincent followed.

Although he was old enough to remember Old Midgar, Vincent had expected Deepground to resemble something out of Palmer’s sci-fi novels: battered metal and multicolored buttons blinking in the darkness, or perhaps organic dwellings hewn out of the living rock. In all his imaginings, he had not envisioned a buried city as trapped in time as he was. Although there was metal aplenty in the form of pipes and support beams, the various safety lights glowed red and green on buildings so anachronistic that it felt more like a stage set than reality. Old Midgar had been a mish-mash of architectural styles and construction. The structures crowded around the vast chimney of Reactor Zero were incongruously built of wood or crumbling brick. Even the most recent buildings would have been old when his father was a boy. Kalm style wood and stucco houses with tile roofs competed for space with tin-topped brick sheds, and slate and stone former factories.

Somewhere near the base of the cooling tower, he thought he could make out the stately gray edifice of Old Midgar General. He had been present when the hospital was still active. He had searched through the patients and casualties for Veld’s wife and daughter but to no avail. He remembered the first reactors, the construction, the incessant buzz of the perpetual industry of the old factory town. Now, however, everything was eerily quiet. The whir and grind of distant machinery served as a backdrop for the sharper noises of soldiers coming and going.

Sephiroth had described Deepground as a Zolom’s nest, but upon closer inspection, it more accurately resembled a Karama hive. Buildings piled on buildings, pipes and superstructure ran everywhere. Every square inch was precious in the limited space. Although there were shadows everywhere, sneaking through to the Deepground mainframe would not be easy.

 _Do you know where it is?_ Vincent asked. Masuka had to think about that. She had been kept in the research wing of Old Midgar General, and then later relocated to a separate facility. She did not know the exact location of the building that housed the mainframe.

Gigas also thought hard, he had built much of this city with his own hands. He too had ended up in Old Midgar General due to a construction accident involving the old reactor. There had been a power shed and a larger maintenance building where all the electrical equipment was stored. Leaving the two guards to race to their duty, Vincent ducked into the nearest narrow alleyway.

More troops were running past, swarms of men, women, and beasts clad in gray, their faces obscured by helmets. Like insects they were virtually indistinguishable from one another, save that some ran on two legs and some on four. All of them _stank_ of Jenova. Indeed, the entire city reeked of her. He felt his hackles rise and a low growl escape his throat. Fortunately, it went unnoticed beneath the blare of the alarm and the stampede of many boots. It was no good trying to move with so many eyes, he would have to wait until they’d all assembled.

Vincent had not expected there to be so much overlap within their shared memory. Both Gigas and Masuka had memories similar to his own; of a time before the Plate or the Shinra tower. Gallian recognized only bits and pieces- mostly the scents of earth, predator, and prey. Chaos seemed bewildered by so much human habitation, his own memories being of a dark pool at the lowest point of a wide valley like water at the bottom of a bowl.

The flood of soldiers had largely passed them by. Best to move on while their focus was on something besides himself. It would do him no good to climb over rooftops and ridgepoles as he had beneath the Plate. Squinting up at the higher catwalks revealed guard posts and sniper perches. This time, he must take the low road in order to remain out of sight. Further eyeing the rafters was made difficult by the poor lighting and tangle of steel and wire that held up the slums.

It took him a moment to pick out the cables and wires that splayed out from the reactor and across the cavern like the runners of a metallic weed. The largest bundle led down to a stout brick building that looked familiar to all except Gallian and Chaos. The original Shinra Electric Power Company had once been a handsome brick factory building that dated from his grandfather’s time. Vincent had not been present when Shinra had made the transition from munitions to makou. However, he remembered the many old-fashioned factories with their brick facades and hardwood floors. He and Veld would have been among the last to remember when this entombed version of Midgar had known the sky.

Silently, Vincent detached himself from the shadows and darted toward the former electrical plant. A lot of incidental structure, pipes, and rubbish had gone up since the last time he had walked down this street. The alleyways had- if possible- gotten even more narrow, as if the buildings had been shoved closer together. The distance wasn’t far, but was doubled by the many twists and turns he had to navigate. The alarm had died down, making every noise and rasp of machinery artificially loud. He jumped at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder, and froze, only to realize it was Chaos.

 _Our presence has been detected,_ the demon murmured, though there was no one to hear him. Or was there?

 _Jenova?_ Vincent asked.

 _Hurry,_ Masuka urged. _What time we had, we have lost._

No sooner had they given warning, than a pillar of darkness appeared in front of him. Vincent had to pull up short in order to keep from running into it headlong. Not a pillar. A man. Or something that had been a man at one time. It was shaped like a person, but the smell, the aura was all wrong. A snarl escaped his lips and he snatched his pistol from his hip, leveling it and firing. He did not stay to watch the creature stumble back and collapse into the wall. 

_Run,_ Gigas told him. _It doesn’t matter if they see us, just go!_

Vincent went. Hoisting himself up onto the slippery slate of the closest rooftop, he raced toward the electrical plant. Almost at once gunfire rang out and a second alarm blared to life. Another of the living shadows appeared before him and he blasted it at practically point-blank range, noting with distant satisfaction how it fell from the roof. Two more were waiting for him as he skidded down the steep slope of the roof and onto the crumbling asphalt of the street. He did not resist as Gallian leaped to the front, tearing into both of them at once. The fight was brief, resulting in twin piles of black rags. Although the beast would have liked to stay and fight the second pair of black figures that were rapidly approaching, Vincent grabbed the reins again and ran for the door of the power plant.

A number of workers looked up, startled, as he slammed the heavy metal door behind him and put a smoking hole in the keypad that served as the lock. They blinked, alarmed, and shrank back.

“Shift’s over,” he declared. “Everyone out.”

He did not have to repeat himself. All of them downed tools and _ran_.

The door shuddered ominously and Vincent decided the workers might be on to something. Gun in hand, he headed deeper into the building. The old mainframes of the original Shinra building had been kept in the basement, below ground level where it was cool. One always took the stairs in the event of an emergency, and he raced down the slippery cast-iron and concrete steps two at a time. The hum of electricity had grown louder in his ears, alerting him that he must be close. Above him, he heard the door explode inward. Calling Gigas to the front, he shoved the sliding blast door open just enough to squeeze through and into a perfect maze of machinery.

A far cry from the miniature “desk top” models in the updated Turk’s office, a labyrinth of dull gray metal and blinking lights stood before him. Unable to help a small, lopsided smirk, he flipped open his PHS and dialed.

“Hello?” It was Elena.

“I’m in,” he told her.

“Great, what are we up against?” she asked him. “DOS? Basic?”

“Fortran, I think,” he replied, hurrying past the vast towers of machinery in search of a screen. “Possibly Cobalt.”

There was a profoundly uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.

“I’m guessing the mainframe’s a bit...dated?”

“Well, it’s younger than me,” Vincent remarked, “but that’s not saying much.”

“That’d be puttin’ it mildly,” Azul’s deep voice cut into the phone call. “By the way, you’re on speaker.”

“It’s alright,” Vincent assured them. “I actually know how to use these.”

“Oh that’s right!” Elena exclaimed brightly, realization dawning. “You would! Err…”

Vincent bit his lip against a chuckle, stopping short as he finally located a console. “I found a keyboard. Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I wish you could have taken a micro cam in with you,” she sighed. “It’d be so much easier if I could see what you’re doing.”

“Unless you know how Deepground organizes their database, I’m not sure it would.”

Elena’s silence seemed indignant, but she did not argue with him.

“You’re probably lookin’ for something under either the SOLDIER program or the medical archive, maybe both,” Azul advised.

“Sephiroth mentioned that the Tsviets were listed under Weapon’s Development, I’m going to start there.”

“Good idea,” Elena agreed.

“It’s locked,” he said, staring down the green characters like a sheriff facing an outlaw at high noon. “Now we see how good my memory is.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

These old mainframes accepted numbers only when it came to passcodes. Palmer had coached him on how to operate the darn things back in their younger days. Eight empty spaces flashed before him. SOLDIER and Turks both used the year-month-day format.

“Here goes.”

Typing with his new hand was less awkward than the prosthetic claw, but still a challenge. Carefully, deliberately, he entered Lucrecia’s birthday, the date of her anniversary, and the birthday of her son. The computer buzzed in displeasure and erased his first attempt, again displaying the eight empty character slots. Vincent felt his brows furrow. He was certain he’d done it properly.

“It didn’t work,” he reported, carefully repeating his entry. Again, the computer buzzed and reset. He could hear the footsteps thundering down the stairs, the soldiers crashing against the sealed door.

“One try left,” Elena’s voice crackled over the PHS. “What are we doing wrong?”

Vincent bit his lip, the door shuddering in its jamb. The computer had accepted the passcodes, but not the order. Lu’s birthday, her and Hojo’s anniversary, and Sephiroth’s birthday.

Wait.

“Sephiroth came first.”

“Wait, what?” Elena asked, but Vincent was already typing.

“Lucy’s birthday…”

Accepted.

“Then Sephiroth’s birthday…”

Accepted.

“Then the wedding. Lucy was expecting when they were married.”

Accepted.

Confirmed.

“I’m in!” he told her, unable to help the note of triumph in his voice. “Now what the hell am I looking for?”

“Anything labeled ‘SOLDIER’ or ‘Hybrid’,” Azul repeated. “Don’t touch anything labeled ‘Mothers’ or ‘School’.”

“Noted,” Vincent muttered, the talons of his left hand clattering awkwardly against the worn metal of the keyboard. “Do you have a problem with me blowing this thing to kingdom come once the chips are deactivated?” he asked. “I don’t want to risk anyone starting this up again.”

“The kids n’ the Mothers are each under a different sector,” Azul told him. “They’ll be alright. Blow the damn thing sky high.”

“Take it easy, Captain,” Elena cut in. “We don’t know if the computer runs anything else like ventilation, electricity, or medical support. I’m still trying to access it from here,” Elena said, concentration clear in her voice. “Gods I haven’t done coding like this in years. This is why no one uses green screens anymore…”

“Less talking, more typing,” Vincent reminded her tensely as the door dented inward. “Running out of time down here…”

“Did you get them disabled?”

“I _think_ so,” he said, watching characters flash past on the screen in a cascade of green and black. “It’s still loading. Probably will be for days. These old number-crunchers weren’t known for their speed.”

Over the phone, Elena swore rather more violently than he had expected. He was on the verge of reminding her about strong language when the door burst open.

“Call you back,” he said shortly, snapping the phone shut and reaching for his pistols. It felt ridiculously good to have a weapon in each hand again, and he raised them both, expecting gray-clad troops to come rushing through the door. Instead, it dented inward, falling to the floor with a deafening crash. Vincent blinked. Not dozens of masked, anonymous soldiers, but four caped and helmeted figures in solid black entered the room. Hadn’t he shot these guys on the way in? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Masuka shuddered, the pins and needles chasing up his own spine and into a name: _Restrictors._

She did not remember them being masked, but she remembered the coldness and cruelty that wafted from them like a foul stench. The four of them would not quickly or easily surrender.

“Gentleman, is this really what you want to do?” he asked them. It was, after all, only polite to give them to chance to stand down. The black figures exchanged glances and lunged at him, weapons poised. Thumbing the safety off his own weapons, Vincent opened fire.

He didn’t care so much about getting hit. Chaos and the others would see to their collective safety. At present, it was more important to keep the Deepground troops from hitting the computer. If the machine was destroyed before it finished deactivating the hundreds of thousands of microchips, there was a risk that the explosives would detonate.

All four of them wielded blades of some sort- the nearest had what looked like a pair of machetes crossed with six-shooters. He fired off a round, and Vincent dodged, the bullet ricocheting off the edge of the computer. One of the others had a short sword similar to those carried by SOLDIERs, though Sephiroth’s men had never carried a blade as black and notched as this one. For a moment Vincent wished he hadn’t left the bronze claw at the bottom of Lucrecia’s makou well. Such armor would have come in useful about now. He was not given further time to reflect on the matter as a third rushed him, this one bearing a spear that seemed to be made up of one-third blade. The sharp head rose up in a stylized “U”, one point significantly longer than the other. It wasn’t easy to dodge and dance away from a weapon with such a long reach. Playing keep-away brought him close to the fourth of the black-cloaked creatures. At first Vincent thought it carried no weapon, until it raised its hands and a took a swipe at him. He dove out of the way, Chaos’ reflexes keeping them from being garrotted by what looked like a jump rope with oversized grips and strung with razor-edged chain links instead of a rope.

Lead ricocheted off of steel and Vincent had to dodge again, sliding behind the shelter of one of the enormous consoles and firing off a round. Most sparks flew as they returned fire. He wasn’t able to keep his cover for long. The two with the swords had circled behind him. Vincent leaped to his feet, vaulting over the enormous power towers. Although he managed to squeeze off another round in mid-flip, it didn’t seem to matter. Every shot connected, every bullet found it’s mark, but the Restrictors seemed unphased.

It was a pity he could not split himself four ways. Gigas, Masuka, and Gallian could have each taken one for themselves. As it was, it wasn’t easy to keep all four of the Restrictors at arm’s length. For beings that looked as if they were decaying where they stood, they were strong, and they were _fast_ , nearly as fast as he was himself. Chancing a glance at the computer console, Vincent squinted at the tiny characters flashing past as the computer groaned in attempt to shut down several hundred microchips all at once.

One of the black-clad fiends seized him by the throat. Vincent brought his pistol up between the blank black eyes of its mask and pulled the trigger. The thing barely even flinched. Fear shivered up his spine as it began to laugh- if one could describe the rusty meat-grinder sounds coming from its throat as laughter.

 _Little help, here?_ he asked, mentally giving Chaos a rather panicked glance.

 _With pleasure,_ Chaos growled, stepping to the front. _These are but puppets of the Crisis. They know neither fear nor pain. Tearing their heads off will be doing everyone a favor._

 _Have at, Chief,_ Vincent said, preparing to retreat and let Chaos take the wheel. Before the wings could burst from his back, before he could turn the tables and wraps his claws around the Restrictor’s neck, the ground shook and a deep groaning noise rumbled throughout the chamber. All of them were thrown across the room and into the wall as a flood of makou burst through the floor. No. Not makou, Vincent realized as Chaos seized control with a mighty roar and charged toward the geyser.

_Jenova._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one Restrictor is featured in "Dirge of Cerberus Online" but the Official version is that there were originally four. Again, only one is actually shown and given a weapon, so I took a bit of artistic license with the other three.
> 
> While I realize Dirge also hints that FF7 tech might have been a few generations ahead of ours (har har), we all saw the size of those consoles. Those were some big computers. Maybe they weren't as bad as the behemoths of the 60s and 70s and early 80s, but hey, it's an AU for a reason. ;P
> 
> Pencil sketch of [Sephiroth getting his hair done.](http://rubyoftrinity.deviantart.com/art/Plait-636681727?ga_submit_new=10%253A1474900999)


	59. Holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aeris makes it rain.

“I want you two to stay here,” Sephiroth had said to them. “Stay with Aeris. Keep her safe.”

Cloud had saluted and Tifa had followed suit, despite not formally belonging to the military herself. Aeris had asked for them specifically to be her bodyguards for the invasion of Midgar. They were her friends, as well as good soldiers. She couldn’t talk to the other troops the way she could to the two of them. Sephiroth, unexpectedly, had agreed. Not only had he assigned Cloud and Tifa to her personally, but had also tasked two-dozen other soldiers to protect her.

“I know I can count on you,” the General had told him, and pushed a SOLDIER’s sword into Cloud’s hands. Aeris hadn’t been able to help smiling at the awestruck look on the boy’s face. Unable to reply, he’d saluted again before Sephiroth had walked off. Zack had given Cloud a grin and a thumb’s up before following his commander.

Having Zack’s stamp of approval made Aeris feel a little better. Although they’d done a good job of keeping Deepground off her case last time, Aeris wasn’t sure that this time Cloud, Tifa, and the other soldiers Zack had left to guard her would be as successful. They were venturing into the heart of Midgar, into the lair of the Crisis. The Shinra army- with the notable exceptions of Sephiroth and Genesis- might be free of Jenova’s influence, but the same could not be said of Deepground. Which was why she was here, perhaps a mile beyond Midgar’s city walls, on the distant edge of the battle.

Fingering the white materia that hung from the black silk cord around her neck, Aeris couldn’t help feeling nervous. Nervous for herself, for the troops, but especially for Zack. He might be a SOLDIER 1st Class, but he wasn’t invincible. She knew in her head that he could take care of himself, of his men, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was _wrong_.

“Aeris, are you okay?” Tifa asked.

“I’m just nervous,” Aeris told her, trying to sound confident.

“Relax, you’ve totally got this,” Tifa assured her. “We took on these goons once, we can do it again no problem!”

Aeris wasn’t so sure about that. Watching from the outskirts of Midgar was nerve wracking at best. Zack wasn’t a Cetra, but they’d become so close, she swore she could hear his heavy breaths as he ran, feel the weight of the Buster sword in his hands. He wasn’t afraid, not for himself, anyway. She wished she had his courage. She wished he was here beside her, or that she was charging into battle next to him.

 _Mama,_ she thought, _Daddy, watch out for him?_

They did not reply in words of course, but she felt a little better knowing they were nearby. It would work out. She hoped.

 

\--

 

Of all the things Zack had considered doing in his career as a SOLDIER, charging _into_ Midgar to attack Deepground had never been one of them. Yet here he was, leading the charge as the combined forces of SOLDIER, Avalanche, the Turks, and the many volunteers they’d picked up along the way poured through the gap in the wall and into the slums.

There were still citizens here, but none of them were in sight, which was just as well. If they were smart, they’d stay indoors. It didn’t take him long to encounter one of the mongrels that Lazard had warned them about. The four-legged creatures wore helmets and uniforms like some grotesque parody of a human soldier, but that was where the similarities ended. Zack didn’t even break stride as he pulled the Buster sword from its place on his back and sliced the thing in two. It wasn’t too hard to put an end to the grisly creatures, but as had been the case with their last battle, there were certainly a lot of them and probably more where that came from.

“Sir!” Zack shouted into his PHS, “we got any cover on top?”

“Next wave,” Sephiroth promised. “Genesis and I have our eye on things from above.”

“Copy that,” Zack replied and hastily pocketed his phone before engaging the next monster. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT KILLING EVERY LAST ONE!” he shouted to his troops. “KEEP MOVING FORWARD! WE HAVE TO CLEAR A PATH FOR AERIS!”

With any luck she wouldn’t need to venture any farther than the city walls; just close enough for her Healing Rain to wash the Jenova out of the Deepground soldiers. However, that would first require them to encounter some human troops. Perhaps they were all above Plate? Elfe’s team was supposedly handling things topside. He hoped she was having better luck. Becoming annoyed, Zack swung at the beast that had just leaped at him, neatly dividing it in two. Making a fist, he hurriedly muttered the incantation and opened his hand. Electricity danced from his fingers in flickering blue-white lines, vaporizing anything it touched.

“LET’S GO!” he hollered, waving for the troops to move forward. “WE GOTTA GET TO THE CENTER!”

 

\--

 

The airship had been a brilliant idea, but it only worked so well. They could support Elfe and her troops as they stormed the Plate, but Zack and the others would be largely on their own. Sephiroth trusted Zack to do his job, but he disliked not being able to see what was going on. Ideally, he would have led one assault while Genesis led the other. Now, all they could do was watch. It was maddening to say the least.

Far below, Elfe’s troops made a bright wedge of color as they pushed into the wall of soldiers dressed in Deepground gray. Even from this height, he could hear the sharp rat-tat-tat of gunfire, and the clash of steel on steel. He should be down there helping them; either leading Zack and the others into the teeth of Deepground, or beside Elfe as she stormed the Shinra building. Which reminded him…

“Is the Shinra building fully staffed?” he asked Scarlett.

“No,” she answered, “but there _are_ people in there. I know Finn’s been holed up in his office for the past week. He was still there when Heidigger and I hijacked the air force.”

“Deepground has flying troops,” Sephiroth commented. “Where are they?”

As if on cue, the insect-like soldiers emerged from the Shinra building like wasps from a metallic hive.

“You had to ask,” Genesis grumbled.

“Captain, fire at will,” Sephiroth commanded, wishing he had two wings. Surely an aerial battle would not put him at risk of losing himself to Jenova?

The airship shook and vibrated as the gunners climbed into their perches and opened fire. The winged soldiers were no match for the sheer firepower of the _Highwind’s_ canons. However, what they lacked in endurance, they made up for in volume. It seemed for every one blasted out of the sky, a dozen more appeared to take its place.

“Do we have eyes on Zack?” Sephiroth asked over the din of the creatures and cannon fire.

“Working on it,” Scarlett replied tensely. “I’ve hacked into the city surveillance system, but there’s not a lot of active cameras in the slums. We’ll have more luck once he gets closer to the city center and the primary support column.”

“Think we could take these pests together?” Genesis asked. Sephiroth just looked at him, confused.

“We each have an opposing wing,” Genesis explained. “We could try and fly together…?” he trailed off at Sephiroth’s dubious expression.

“We’re not going out there for a reason,” Sephiroth reminded him. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“I’ve got visuals on Zack!” Scarlett announced, triumphant. “And he’s got company.”

 

\--

 

Weiss did not want to fight. He did, however, have rather a strong desire to hit something. Until his swords were in his hands, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to use them. Below the surface, down in the dark, he had wanted to melt into the shadows as his brother had once done. The cold air and piercing sunlight of Outside had slapped him into sense again. Deep in the flesh at the back of his neck, the microchip burned, driving him forward. Gone were the thoughts of surrendering outright. Sephiroth’s army was trying to kill them, and he did not intend to hand them an easy victory. He would not surrender. He would not trade one master for another. At least, that was the idea.

There were times when the battle lust overtook him, and he’d come to his senses hours later, surrounded by corpses and no memory of the slaughter. He’d seen it happen to Rosso, and once or twice to Azul, but he could not remember Nero ever losing himself in a fight. If Rosso could find escape in bloodshed, that was fine, she had suffered enough and deserved a few moments of that strange quiet brought on by so much chaos. However, he had to stay focused. Weiss didn’t plan to surrender, nor did he plan to oppose Sephiroth. Instead, he would offer a trade: he would fight alongside the legendary Silver General if Sephiroth would kill the Restrictors. Weiss might not be able to lift a hand against the hated quartet of faceless jailers, but no one in the Shinra army carried a microchip. Without the Restrictors, there was no Deepground. Without the Restrictors, everyone could go free.

Although the former Shinra army and its collection of volunteers had only just invaded the city, it wasn’t long before Weiss ran into people wearing colored uniforms. However, he wasn’t interested in the blue-clad infantry, or the red or purple uniforms of the 3rd and 2nd Class SOLDIERs. He didn’t strike to kill, just to get them out of the way. They went down easy enough, and most of them only had to be hit once before they stayed down. Not until he encountered the black uniform of a SOLDIER, 1st Class did he even attempt to parley.

“Hey you!” Weiss shouted, taking a swing at the SOLDIER just for fun. He’d always wanted to take on one of these guys. “Where’s your general? I thought Sephiroth was leading this invasion?”

“He is,” the SOLDIER replied, blocking Weiss’ narrow blades with an enormous sword of his own. Weiss blinked. Who the hell carried antiques like Buster swords into battle? “I’m just clearing a path for him!”

“Well tell Sephiroth that he can waltz in here on a red carpet if he wants. This is fun and all, but I’m sick of taking orders.”

The SOLDIER looked confused and stepped back, waiting for him to either say something else, or to make a move. Not so long ago, Weiss would have pressed his advantage, taken the cheap shot, and hit his opponent where it hurt, ensuring that they would not get up again. That had been before Jane, before Attrice, before Usher, before their...punishment. Withdrawing a few steps, he sheathed his swords.

“My name is Weiss,” he said. “Do you have a name?”

“Uh….Zack,” the SOLDIER faltered, looking confused. “Nice to meet you?”

“If Sephiroth wants Midgar, he’s got to kill the Restrictors,” Weiss told him. Zack’s brows sank, a look somewhere between confusion and concentration on his face as he set the Buster sword on his back.

“The what?”

“The Restrictors,” Weiss repeated. “There are four of them. They control Deepground. Kill them, and I and my troops will happily stand aside. We won’t pledge loyalty, but we won’t get in your way either.”

“Uh...okay,” Zack said. “What’s the catch?”

Now it was Weiss’ turn to be confused.

“Catch?” he echoed, head tilted to one side.

“Yeah, you know, the catch. What aren’t you telling me? What’s in it for you? What are you leaving out?”

What indeed? At the back of his neck, the microchip burned.

 _You will fight,_ the words echoed insistently inside his head. Weiss tried to force them back, but they only grew louder.

“Are you okay?” Zack asked him. “Is it the microchip?”

Weiss looked up, surprised. “How do you know about that?”

“Azul told us,” Zack replied, and then a lightbulb seemed to go off inside his head. “You’re one of his kids!”

“Azul’s alive?” was Weiss’ first question. “Is he okay? Why didn’t he come back?”

“He’s okay,” Zack assured him. “He told us the same thing: kill the Restrictors to free his family.”

Family.

The word rang hollow in Weiss’ head, in his heart. If Azul had come back, perhaps Rosso would still be in one piece, maybe Nero would still be alive.

 _Fight,_ the command growled inside his brain, the single syllable sending rumbles of pain down every nerve. _Fight…_

“Azul abandoned us,” Weis said low and dangerous, feeling the bloodlust kindling to life from the flames of his anger. “It’s his fault Rosso’s hurt. It’s his fault Nero’s _dead!_ ”

Drawing his swords, he lunged at Zack and fired.

“Hey!” Zack cried, pulling his own sword and diving to one side, only just dodging the shots. “Whatever happened to ‘take me to your leader’?”

Weiss was not listening. Eyes glowing a solid neon green, the only words he heard were the Restrictor’s orders: 

_You will fight._

_You Will Fight!_

_YOU WILL FIGHT!_

 

\--

 

“Next wave, move out!” Sephiroth shouted into his PHS over the noise of gunfire and the violin screech of the flying troops as they died. “Fenrir Squad’s encountered hostiles. Get in there and give them a hand!”

The white-haired soldier had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Although he and Zack had been chatting amiably enough for the last few minutes, apparently the other man was done talking. Zack was holding his own, but the idea was to get this over with as quickly as possible.

On the Plate, Elfe’s troops were having difficulties of their own. A familiar-looking figure with brilliantly red hair had appeared on the street, a wall of gray-clad troops behind her. Rosso stood and faced Elfe, weapon drawn, but made no move to engage her. Turning, Sephiroth snatched a pair of binoculars from the nearest person and hurried to focus on the scene below.

Rosso stood with a machete in each hand, and a surprised expression on her face. Perhaps she’d been expecting to engage himself or Genesis, and not the leader of Avalanche. Sephiroth watched, bemused, as Rosso tossed her blades onto the street. What was she playing at? Surely she couldn’t be surrendering? The soldiers behind her exchanged glances, evidently as confused as he was. Elfe stepped forward, hand outstretched, and Rosso moved to respond in kind, but abruptly collapsed to her knees. Even so high up, he thought he could hear her piercing scream as she grabbed her head, features contorted in pain.

Elfe retreated a step or two, Veritas poised. It was as well she had taken the defensive, a moment later, Rosso’s weapon was back in her hands, and she was charging toward Elfe and Avalanche, her own troops right behind her. Elfe met her unafraid, sparks shearing off their crossed blades. Sephiroth wasn’t worried, not really. Rosso wouldn’t be an easy victory, but Elfe had Zirconiade to protect her. She’d be alright. Still, it wasn’t easy to set the binoculars aside.

The flying soldiers were still coming fast and thick, surrounding the airship. A few had made it close enough to take pot shots at the propellers, and the windows of the bridge.

“Genesis, how’s Zack looking?” Sephiroth asked, ducking as one of the bullets penetrated the plate glass.

“Better than we are,” he remarked. “I say we put an end to these pests.”

“I got at least two on the rudder and three more on the starboard prop,” the Captain reported. “If we don’t get ‘em off, we’re not gonna stay airborne for too much longer.”

“Let’s go,” Sephiroth said, nodding to Genesis. The younger man grinned and drew his sword.

“Finally. _Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess,_ ” Genesis quoted. “ _We seek it thus, and take to the sky._ ”

“Yes, well, just remember one wing won’t carry you very far,” Sephiroth told him, fighting back a smile. He’d been itching to fight; having to stand and watch was driving him mad. If he were honest, he was glad for an excuse to have Masamune in his hands again. “Let’s go swat some flies.”

Up close, the flying soldiers were only superficially human-shaped. They had two arms and two legs, but their limbs more closely resembled those of insects, the joints positioned at angles not quite right for human extremities. Their buzzing fly’s wings made it possible for them to dart and hover, making them tricky to strike while balancing on the smooth, polished metal of the _Highwind’s_ chassis. The real challenge, however, was remembering not to overreach and thereby take a step into empty space. Genesis seemed happy just to be swinging his sword again, but the novelty was short-lived.

“ _Where_ are they all coming from?” he demanded, taking out four of the flying soldiers with one slash. “This is ridiculous! What’s the point?”

For no reason he could name, Genesis’ question stirred something cold in the pit of Sephiroth’s stomach. _Was_ there a point? The plan had been to buy time for Vincent to penetrate Deepground and shut off the microchips. He had tried to call the Turk earlier, but he had not answered. Although Azul was still captive and Sephiroth did not think the giant had betrayed them, Midgar had been prepared for their coming. Finn Shinra had every reason to believe that even if the Shinra troops did not want his head on a platter, Avalanche certainly would. The idea had been to draw out as many troops as possible, and with any luck Jenova herself. The Plate and slums were alive with both Deepground and united troops, all engaged in battle. Aeris was waiting, but he had not yet heard from Vincent. Taking a precious second, Sephiroth swiped Masamune through a couple of winged soldiers and grabbed his PHS, flipping it open.

He hit the call button, listened to the tone, but did not get to say ‘Hello’.

The ship bucked beneath their feet, sending both of them scrambling for purchase. Genesis hurled a blast of fire at the insects still plaguing them, but the ship shuddered a second time. Sephiroth stumbled to hands and knees, clutching desperately at the smooth surface of ship.

“ _SEPH!_ ” Genesis’ panicked cry made him look over. Right hand still clutching his sword, he had only his left with which to cling to the ship. There was little to no purchase on the smooth metal, and Genesis’ injured shoulder was not equal to the task of supporting his full weight. The phone had gone tumbling over the side, but Sephiroth had kept his grip on Masamune. Hastily shoving her back into her sheath, he scrambled and skidded over to his friend.

“Just drop him,” Sephiroth urged, holding out one hand. “We can find Rapier later. He’ll be alright. You’re more important.” 

Sephiroth would hate to drop Masamune from over 25,000 feet, but a sword could be repaired. Genesis, already weakened by degradation, could not. He’d already lost too many friends, Sephiroth was not about to lose another. Still, the look on Genesis’ face was reluctant as he glanced at his sword. Hefting the weapon, he tried to maneuver it into its sheath, but only managed to slide down the side of ship even further. Making a wild dive and a grab, Sephiroth seized his friend with both hands, landing spread-eagled on his stomach. He tried to dig in with his knees, with his ankles, but there was absolutely nothing to hold onto. Hanging by Sephiroth’s grip alone, Genesis cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at the ground far below. It wasn’t until that moment Sephiroth realized the swarm had scattered.

“What do they know that we don’t?” Genesis asked.

“I imagine we’ll find out in short order,” Sephiroth replied, trying hard to pull Genesis back over the slippery curve of the airship’s hull. Looking past his friend, he noticed they were almost directly above the Shinra building. Below them, concrete rumbled and iron shrieked as the entire Plate vibrated as if it had been struck. Bits of the Shinra building abruptly broke off and tumbled to the street where they crashed in an explosion of cement dust. Earthquakes were not common to Midgar. What on Gaia could possibly be causing...

The brazen tower of the Shinra building wobbled as if made of gelatine, plating falling like scales and tumbling to the distant ground. Glass exploded outward in a shower of razor-edged shards as the windows shattered. The whole structure, rumbled, shook, and then abruptly crumbled as something surged up through it. A geyser of green rose up and up, bursting out of the building in an enormous fountain. Plating, fragments of drywall, computers, desks, and chairs rained down in a lethal shower of office equipment. The shockwave knocked the _Highwind_ onto its side, pushing it out toward the perimeter of the city. 

“GENESIS!” Sephiroth shouted, doing his best to maintain his hold on the slippery side of the airship as well as his friend. Abruptly releasing Rapier, Genesis made a wild grab for Sephiroth’s hands. He caught them, but the sudden lunge sent them both sliding off the edge and into thin air.

“Remember your suggestion earlier?” Sephiroth shouted above the wind.

“Yeah,” Genesis shouted back, latching both arms around Sephiroth, who pulled him close in turn.

“Ready? One, two, THREE!”

Both opened their wings at once, the sudden reverse in trajectory straining their hold on one another. It took them a few awkward flaps before they managed to synchronize enough to turn their flight into more than just a controlled fall. Debris rained down on all sides, making it even more difficult to stay aloft. Looking up, Sephiroth felt his jaw and stomach drop. The fountain of green widened and condensed, mounding up into a hill of liquid that rippled and undulated. Abruptly a set of arms tore free, revealing massive breasts. A head was thrown back and jaws opened in sinister laughter as long, snakelike hair waved in a breeze of its own making.

_Jenova…_

Beside him, Genesis swore violently.

“You still got your phone?” Sephiroth asked him.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s on my belt.”

With some difficulty, Sephiroth pulled the PHS from its clip and flipped it open.

“Hello?” Cloud’s voice asked.

Sephiroth swallowed hard as Jenova looked down and met his eyes. The migraine started immediately as she began to elbow her way into his thoughts, to push his consciousness aside. Gripping the phone tightly, Sephiroth forced himself to speak. He would not get another chance at this.

“Cue Aeris.”

 

\--

 

“General Sephiroth says…” Cloud trailed off as he looked over at Aeris. Already the white materia on her necklace was glowing, a brilliant light shining between her laced fingers. A beatific yet vacant look shone in her brilliant green eyes.

“Aeris?” Tifa asked.

“I know,” Aeris replied somewhat distractedly. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Can you walk and pray at the same time?” Tifa asked.

“Take my elbow,” Aeris said, closing her eyes. “Just make sure I don’t walk into any walls or fall down a hole or something.”

 _You can do this,_ her mother’s voice said softly. _Your father and I will guide you._

_But what about Zack?_

_He will be protected, don’t worry,_ her mother assured her. _Nothing will happen to him or to you._

Encouraged, Aeris closed her eyes. “Sephiroth said the city walls should be close enough. Get me there. We’ll see if we need to go any further.”

Cloud and Tifa each put a hand under her arms, and together, they walked forward.

 

\--

 

Elfe looked up just in time to see an uncommonly bulky figure wheeling toward the ground. Rosso likewise took a moment to gape at it. With only one wing apiece, Sephiroth and Genesis plummeted arm in arm toward the street where they landed heavily in a cloud of dust. Apparently deciding the men were unimportant, Rosso let out a battle cry and charged toward her. Releasing Masamune, Sephiroth leaped forward, sword drawn.

“Get back!” he snarled, bringing Masamune down hard. “She’s _mine!_ ”

Rosso did not even have time to shriek as she was flung viciously into a nearby building. Elfe just stared, sword poised, as Sephiroth rounded on her, only abstractly noting Rosso falling to the street in a cascade of rubble. She had expected her to get up, but Rosso did not move. Was Sephiroth here to rescue her or…? He turned to face her, teeth bared and eyes glowing a solid neon green. Nope. Definitely not to rescue.

 _Do not hold back, Daughter,_ Zirconiade whispered. _This is not the man you love, this is the Right Arm of the Crisis. We must cut it off._

Elfe swallowed hard, and adjusted her grip on Veritas. Zircon was right. Sephiroth had known this would happen, and she couldn’t abandon him to Jenova’s will. She had promised him, she would not let him suffer.

 _I don’t know if I can do this…_ Elfe confessed.

It was as if Zircon had put her arms around her. _You do not have to._

Elfe inhaled sharply at the rush of power, at the feeling of being herself but _more_. She felt herself grow in strength if not in stature, the crystal armor that materialized to replace her uniform of Avalanche green seeming to form from the rays of sunlight that pierced Midgar’s perpetual layer of smog. Both men stopped short, exchanging a look. Genesis retreated a step, chanting into both hands. Flames rose up to briefly engulf him. When they receded, he stood with his sword in his hand, wing spread wide, ready for a fight.

Sephiroth alone had been bad enough. How she was to fight both of them, Elfe had no idea.

 _You are not alone, daughter,_ Zircon reminded her. _I shall be your Right Hand. Let this be the last day the Crisis puppets them._

 

 _Yes,_ Elfe agreed. _One way or another, they will be free._

Both rushed her at once, but she and Zircon were ready for them. Any other blades might have been cloven in two from a blow of Zircon’s enhanced version of Veritas, but both Rapier and Masamune held true, the weight and noise of the impact shivering up her arms. Genesis conjured a ball of fire in his free hand, but Elfe was prepared to see magic from a swordmage, and swept his flames away into harmless ash. Sephiroth lunged at her, Genesis circling around to attack from behind. It wasn’t easy to fend off both of them at once, the dual attacks forcing her to take the defensive. Even with Zirconiade’s help, she could not fight them both forever.

Genesis, still favoring his left arm despite the crazed glow in his eyes, would be the easier victory. She had only fought him once, but it would have to be enough. He had only just allowed to leave his bed, his arm still bound in a sling. The first thing he had done had been to seek her out for a sparring match, ostensibly to size her up. She had not realized what he’d meant by that until they’d squared off in the rail yard. In the back of her mind, the much more friendly engagement played even as she matched him blow for blow:

_“I’d like to discuss something with you,” he had said, saluting her with his blood-red Rapier. “There are are a few things you should know if you plan to pursue a relationship with Sephiroth.”_

_She had been caught somewhere between admiration and appalled that he would be so brazen. Then again, Colonel Rhapsodos had never been known for his subtlety._

_“Such as?” she had asked, drawing Veritas and engaging him._

_“Sephiroth will never show his feelings,” Genesis had begun, tapping blades just to get a feel for her style. “He doesn’t know that he can, I’m not even sure he knows how. He will, however, tell you if you ask because it won’t occur to him to make something up. He’s the most stupidly honest person I know. He might not tell you every excruciating detail, but I can say for certain that he will never, ever lie to you. I hope that you will extend him the same courtesy?”_

_“Of course,” she had replied, thrown a bit by his straightforward verbal attack. Crossing swords with him was much easier, and this was only a friendly duel._

_“Point the second,” Genesis went on, twirling gracefully to engage her again, wing extended to compensate for his bound arm. “Sephiroth has lost virtually everyone he cares about. I am literally the only friend he has left. He already loves and trusts you far more than he should. DO NOT break that confidence.”_

_Elfe had swallowed back a snide remark and simply nodded. “I have no interest in betraying him unless he stabs me in the back first.”_

_Genesis had nodded. “Good. I’m sure you also realise that Sephiroth and myself are two of the most emotionally-stunted people ever to walk the earth? We each come with enough emotional baggage to cripple a King Behemoth, and have been taught that the best way to cope with stress is to either stab it in the face, or to purge it with flame. If he cannot beat the problem into submission, he is totally at a loss.”_

_Elfe had nodded, deflecting Rapier’s crimson blade with ease. It was just as well Genesis didn’t seem to be trying very hard to hit her. She was more concerned with what he had to say._

_“I’ve noticed,” she’d commented, thinking of Sephiroth’s breakdown only a few hours earlier._

_“He doesn’t really understand social interaction outside of a military context,” Genesis had gone on. “He’ll learn, of course, but I imagine like his Turk friend, cocktail parties aren’t something he’ll ever be much good at. My point, Commander Verdot, is that you are going to be entering into one of life’s deepest and most complex relationships with someone who is a train wreck in every possible sense of the word.”_

_“Good thing he has a friend like you,” she’d remarked dryly. Genesis had smiled._

_“I include myself in my previous remarks,” Genesis had said, which she had not expected. “I might have had loving parents, but that comes with its own set of complications. Sephiroth had no one for most of his life. He will love you deeply and desperately with all his heart and mind and soul. If this doesn’t work out, it will kill him, and I will not allow that to happen, so tell me now: do you think you can do this or not?”_

Genesis charged at her, blade aflame, and she took her chance, driving Veritas into his bad shoulder. He screamed, the noise sharp and shrill, as his flesh began to smoke. Elfe herself could not suppress a yelp of alarm as he collapsed to his knees. Yanking her sword free, she turned the flat of her blade and swung, knocking him to the ground. Sephiroth was bearing down, Masamune poised, running full tilt towards her. Her backswing clashed against Masamune, and Elfe staggered under the force of the blow. With Zircon’s help, she threw him off. This time, he fired a blast of magic at her before rushing her a second time. The ice spell exploded harmlessly six inches away from her face, the frozen spikes evaporating into a shower of delicate snowflakes. Lifting her hand, she tossed the spell back at him, which was enough to throw him for perhaps half a second. It was all the advantage she was likely to get, and Elfe seized the brief opportunity with both hands. 

Pushing deep into his space, she brought Veritas down hard, but Sephiroth was ready. Perhaps some part of him remembered their duel in the rail yard? She wondered if he would remember this? Arms trembling with the effort, she held Veritas’ hilt locked against Masamune’s and stared hard into his empty eyes. Taking a deep breath she lunged forward, pushing her face between the razor-edged “V” of their crossed blades to touch her lips to his. Sephiroth froze, the glow in his eyes flickering once, twice, as he relaxed his grip on Masamune and put one hand to his head, wavering where he stood.

“Elfe…?” he asked, though the solid green glow in his eyes remained.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling her eyes well up as she lifted Veritas. “I love you…”

The impact of his long body hitting the pavement felt unnaturally heavy, as if more than flesh and bone had fallen at her feet. As with their previous battle, she had not been able to run him through. Instead, she’d concussed him a second time, knocking him senseless.

 _Strike, Daughter,_ Zirconiade urged her. _Let no other steal him from you. If you cannot, I shall spare you that pain._

“No…” Elfe heard her own voice tremble. “No, I’ll do it. I promised him…”

With both hands she gripped Veritas, his blade poised above Sephiroth’s heart. She had to swallow hard as sudden wave of nausea washed over her. Her hands trembled, but the tighter she gripped her sword, the worse they shook. 

“I can’t,” she sobbed, crumbling to her knees. “I can’t…”

 _Close your eyes, then,_ Zircon instructed gently. _For we both promised him a warrior’s death should the Crisis overpower him._

“Isn’t there another way?” she asked, hating herself for crying. She was the commander of a vigilante army. She had taken lives, many less honorably than this. Sephiroth had _asked_ for this, had _wanted_ her to do this for him so that he would not hurt anyone else. Perhaps he had not realized how badly such a request would hurt her. Her feelings didn’t matter. They had both known from the start that any relationship they might have would be doomed before it had even begun, which was why it had never gone farther than that one kiss. Well, two now, though Sephiroth would not remember. Somehow, that made it even harder. Looking down at Sephiroth’s inert body, Genesis’ words chased through her mind:

_Do you think you can do this or not?_

A screech like a thousand nails on the largest of blackboards made her cringe and look up. Jenova, her naked, gelatinous body towering indecently above the ruins of the Shinra tower, had ceased her laughing and was now screaming, clutching and clawing at something that at this distance was too small to make out. A moment later Elfe felt the first drops of a gathering storm.

 _Aeris,_ she thought, remembering the Healing Rain and its devastating effect on the Deepground troops during the last battle. Elfe felt her hands tighten around Veritas’ grip. She’d give the alien space bitch something to scream about…

 _She is indeed the greater evil,_ Zirconiade agreed. _Let us deal with her first. Afterward, we shall see what can be done for your beloved._

The crystal shard wings popped out of her back painlessly, and Elfe leaped into the air, sword poised. She gave no thought to the fact that she was flying, that Jenova was more than a dozen times her size. The only thing filling her mind was Jenova’s death. Once the parasite was eradicated, only then would Sephiroth, the Planet, and everyone and everything on it be safe.

 

\--

 

Abruptly, Weiss fell to his knees, screaming and clutching his head. Indeed, it took all of Zack’s restraint not to scream and run himself. As it was, he only screamed, but so did everyone else. Bits of building tumbled toward the street as a gigantic figure burst from the crater formerly known as the Shinra Building. Cackling madly, she reared up in an enormous slimy column, snakelike hair waving on its own regardless of the wind of the gathering storm.

“ _ **Thousands of years and still you come at me with sticks?**_ ” she asked, mockingly. “ _ **Little has changed. You are as easy to kill now as you were then.**_ ”

She flowed forward, pushing back the wreckage of the Plate that surrounded her hips like an iron tutu. Debris rained down along with the holy flood of Aeris’ storm. A collective scream went up from soldiers and civilians alike as supports groaned and superstructure buckled. The thought that he was about to be crushed flashed through Zack’s mind, followed by the knowledge that running would do him no good. They were all going to die- those above the Plate, and those below- every single one of them. 

Weiss had gotten to his feet, swords in hand, but a distinctly dazed look on his face. He might be about to be squashed, but Zack wasn’t going to let himself be killed before then. Zack sank into a ready stance, sword poised, but Weiss just stood there. The Deepground commander’s eyes were the same solid neon green as Sephiroth’s had been when Jenova had seized control of his mind and body. However, there seemed to be a crossed wire in Weiss’ brain. He shook his head and blinked deliberately a few times, the green glow flickering but not fading. 

“Hello?” Zack said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you gonna start trying to stab me again or not?”

Yes, apparently, he was. Zack jerked back, bringing his Buster sword up just in time to block Weiss’ lunge. Weiss’ gunblades were easily as long as the Buster sword, but much more slender. Hampered by the size of his own weapon, it wasn’t easy to deflect the frenzied slashes at such close range. Circling around the heaps of rubbish and falling debris, Zack managed to throw him off. Rather than wait for another attack, Zack followed, sword poised, but stopped short as Weiss let out another agonized scream.

The broken Plate offered little protection from the holy rain. Weiss stumbled in one direction and then another, trying to find a dry spot, but there were none. The rain penetrating through the ceiling of bent steel and broken asphalt stained black and brown where it touched his skin. Wait. Those weren’t stains. Zack watched, both mesmerized and horrified as Weiss’ skin dissolved then pulled itself back together as the raindrops splashed onto him. With a hiss of rage, or perhaps pain, he tried to brush the water off his arms and shoulders, but it did no good.

The rain was falling faster, and Weiss’ body appeared to be having trouble healing itself quickly enough. The brown-black lesions lingered now, those on his arms and shoulders growing ever wider. The wild white-blonde thatch of hair was rapidly becoming flat and oxidizing black, as if someone had poured motor oil over his head. The skin of his face looked as if it were melting, the flesh burning away with a sickening sizzle where the water touched it. Weiss’ angry hiss had turned to cries of pain. Soaked, but unharmed, Zack watched transfixed with horror, knowing what he needed to do, but unwilling to do it. Unbidden, memories of Angeal rose to the surface and he swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, Weiss,” he apologized, drawing his Buster sword. “I know it’s not the freedom you wanted but…”

Felling Weiss was not any easier than it had been defeating Angeal. Swallowing back the knot in his throat, Zack watched as Weiss crumbled to the street, his flesh pooling in a muddy puddle around him. Zack nudged him carefully with the dull side of his sword, but the Deepground general did not stir. 

It wasn’t what Azul would have wanted for him, but at least he wasn’t suffering anymore. A gut-turning shriek from the groaning metal above brought him sharply back to the present. Turning his back on Weiss’ body, Zack hefted the Buster sword in both hands. If they were going to die, they were going to take Jenova to hell with them.

“DON’T BE AFRAID!” he called to his troops. “WE GO DOWN, SHE GOES DOWN WITH US!”

Swords wouldn’t do much good against the cosmic jelly of Jenova’s body, but he held the sword as a standard as he charged toward her. The screams turned to battle cries behind him, and he smiled even as he leaped from rooftop to wreckage, climbing higher and higher, closer and closer toward the slimy tower of her body. He wasn’t afraid of an interstellar Jello mold.

“ANYBODY GOT MAGIC OR SUMMONS, LET ‘EM RIP!” he hollered. “SWORDS AIN’T GONNA DO SQUAT!”

Finally in range, Zack began to hurriedly chant the incantation for his own attack. Opening his fist, he let the spell fly, but the many arcs of blue-white electricity did little more than ripple the surface of Jenova’s slimy flesh. Someone else must have had better luck, however. A green-blue streak of light shot up from behind Jenova. Soaring high into the storm clouds, it flashed like bolt of lightning before descending. At first Zack thought it was a bird of some sort, but as it glided closer he could see that was not the case. The best he could come up with was a cross between an angel and a mermaid. Birdlike wings were mounted on its shoulders, while its lower body ended in a long fish tail. The whole of its body was the same sea green as light makou and vaguely female in shape. It had to be a Guardian Summon, but it was unlike any he had ever seen before.

A second streak of color darted into the sky, but this form he was familiar with. Chaos- rather, what looked like a smush of Chaos and Vincent- unfurled his wings with a snap and _roared_. He looked pissed, and Zack didn’t blame him.

“ _ **You!**_ ” Jenova snarled. “ _ **Why is it always YOU? Why won’t you die?!**_ ” Oozing forward, she pushed against the wobbling surface of Plate, shoving it aside. Metal screeched and concrete shattered as the wedge of Sector 7 teetered, tilted, and began to fall. Screams rose up on every side, Zack’s among them. There was literally nowhere to run. Each sector was miles long at its narrowest point. Even if the whole thing didn’t drop straight down like a child’s flower press, there was no time to escape. Debris rained down in deadly chunks: pipes, cables, pieces of rebar, brick, and concrete. Zack dodged and deflected the junk as best he could, but it was no use. Slowly, inexorably, the ceiling fell toward him; several thousand tons of steel and cement coming straight down. This was it.

 _Goodbye, Aeris,_ he thought, lowering the Buster sword to dangle from one hand. _I love you._

 _Don’t give up,_ her voice echoed inside his head. _Not yet. Reinforcements are on the way._

 _Reinforcements?_ he thought back. _What the hell?_

No sooner had he completed the thought than something wispy and green-white brushed past him. Cool and misty against his arm, he jumped back, at first afraid it was a Jenova tentacle bursting through the nearest manhole. He blinked as another darted past. Although smoky and immaterial, it had been in a very familiar shape: a Gallian Behemoth. This one, however, was dressed in primitive armor of leather and bone. More raced past, all of them made of the same green-white mist. Behind them came people in all varieties of dress; everything from Cetran robes and kilts to knee-breeches and bustles. More animals joined the stampede; firecats, dragons, cactaurs, chocobos, and moogles as well as more common birds, beasts, and insects. Even the plants seemed have gotten into the act, the hardy vines and weeds of the slums exploding into bloom, rapidly growing from seed to tree in a matter of minutes.

Rather than attack Jenova, however, the spirits spiraled up into enormous columns. The trees and plants joined them, soaring higher and higher until their branches touched the bottom of the plate. There was an almighty screech and a sickening groan as the weight of highways, homes, and businesses settled upon the shoulders of the Lifestream. It probably wouldn’t last long, but it would last long enough.

 _Holy,_ Zack thought abstractly. _She’s summoned Holy…_

He could feel her smile, the amused tilt of her head.

_Well, are you gonna help, or are you gonna just stand there?_

She was right. Giving himself a mental slap, Zack hefted his Buster sword in both hands. Troops and citizens alike were freaking out, screaming in terror at the sight of so many ghosts, not to mention the Deepground soldiers who under the panacea of Aeris’ Healing Rain either lay melting into muddy puddles, or vomiting Jenova cells all over the street.

“IT’S OKAY!” he called out. “THEY’RE ON OUR SIDE!”

His troops, bless them, took him at his word. Giving themselves a mental shake, they took up weapons again and rallied.

“GET THE CIVILIANS THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” he ordered. “THE SUMMONS AND THE DEAD GUYS HAVE THIS UNDER CONTROL! FULL RETREAT!”

They did not have to be told twice. The civilians screamed and ran, herded into a more or less straight path toward the hole in the wall by the troops who also did their fair share of running, but considerably less screaming. Far above them, the storm grew in intensity, the clouds swirling dangerously. Jenova, still screeching and batting at the rain, attempted to step out of her skirt of twisted steel. A terrified cry went up as the Plate shuddered dangerously.

Jenova herself let out a shout not of pain, but surprise, as shadows black and thick surged up around her. Purple-black tendrils of nothingness spiraled higher and higher around her gelatinous body, lashing her in place like chains. In vain she screamed and struggled but the ghostly ribbons held her fast. Zack watched, mesmerized as the darkness thickened and solidified, becoming a pair of long arms. More darkness flowed up behind her, condensing into a long, billowing robe and a face so deeply shadowed by a wide, flat hat that only its glowing golden eyes were visible. 

“ _ **What treachery is this?**_ ” Jenova demanded, struggling uselessly as the rain began to fall in earnest. “ _ **Unhand me!**_ ”

The figure only tightened its grip, its ephemeral body as strong and solid as steel. No matter how she squirmed, she could not free herself. Although he was too far away to be sure, Zack thought he saw steam rising from her body where the raindrops struck her.

“ _ **NOW!**_ ” the shadow creature bellowed in a voice that seemed to echo through time and space. “ _ **DO IT NOW!**_ ”

Chaos growled and lunged at Jenova, but the mermaid-angel held up one hand. “ _ **Now is not the time, brother. I need your help.**_ ”

“ _ **Very well,**_ ” Chaos grumbled, and dove toward the Plate. 

The mermaid-angel swooped low over the skyscrapers and highrises of the crumbling Plate, a host of tiny stars rising from the streets and buildings to trail behind her in a sparkling train. More and more of them rose up to follow her as she passed over each sector. Behind her, Chaos followed leaving a very different trail- one of destruction. Wherever his shadow passed, rust and ruin descended at a rapid rate, buildings and infrastructure seeming to age thousands of years in only seconds. Steel and concrete crumbled to rust and dust; much smaller, harmless particles falling onto the soldiers and civilians below.

Jenova shrieked, enraged, but the smoke creature held her fast. It didn’t look like it was very easy. Although his incorporeal chains bound her, she had not ceased her struggling. Steam rose from her gelatinous body in vast puffs of vaporous white.

“ _ **NOW, SISTER!**_ ” the shadow bellowed.

Zirconiade shone blindingly, tripling in size. Her radiance no longer contained by the mortal shell of Elfe’s body, she now stood nearly even with the Crisis. Drawing her sword, she dove toward Jenova, weapon poised. Jenova _screamed_ as Zircon’s burning blade pierced her gelatinous flesh. The heavens opened and a veritable flood descended, the downpour so heavy that even the broken bits of the Plate offered no protection.

Jenova struggled in Omega’s grip. Even with Zirconiade’s burning blade of light and purity stabbed through her middle, and the Healing Rain pelting down in a veritable monsoon, she threw back her tentacled head and laughed.

 

\--

 

Jenova’s laughter rang inside Sephiroth’s head as well as in his ears. Normally her voice spoke commands, or made insidious suggestions, but for some reason, at present it only sounded too-loud and annoying. It took him a moment push himself to hands and knees, another to force himself upright. Finding his balance was more difficult than usual, and it distantly occurred to him that Zirconiade must have knocked him out again. Unless, of course, he was dreaming all this. Looking up at the surreal scene of Jenova occupying the space where the Shinra building had once stood, Chaos and what looked like an angelic flying fish taking apart the rapidly crumbling Plate sector by sector, and Zirconiade doing her best to impale Jenova while an enormous living shadow held her down, Sephiroth couldn’t help wondering if he was indeed imagining it all?

Turning his head made the world swim and he staggered where he stood before finding his balance again. All around him was wreckage and carnage, the bodies of Deepground soldiers melting away into mud. Not far away, he spotted a familiar slash of scarlet red.

_Oh no…_

Stumbling over, Sephiroth collapsed to his knees from grief as much as vertigo. Genesis lay sprawled on his face, one arm outstretched, still clutching his sword. More human than the Deepground mongrels, his body was melting more slowly beneath the relentless downpour of the Healing Rain. Even beneath his clothing, his flesh seemed to be slowly dissolving away, leaving the harder tissue of bone. Genesis’ once handsome face had been reduced to a muddy, slimy mess on one side, skin and muscle sliding away at the slightest touch. Carefully turning him into his back, Sephiroth checked for breath, a pulse, but found neither. Genesis was already dead. Sephiroth felt sick; cold, and empty. Even the sting of the holy rain no longer registered.

His last friend was gone. Now there was only one of of Jenova’s unholy offspring left: himself. Her laughter had not ceased, and though he did not look up, he could feel her leering grin.

‘ _Fools_ ’ Jenova’s voice echoed inside his head. ‘ _We cannot be killed! So long as you live, our son, so too will we. We are blood of your blood, bone of your bone. You cannot survive without us._ ’

Behind and below the mad cackling, Sephiroth knew she was right. Genesis had gotten his wish, he had died with his sword in his hand. His brothers were small, they would have been killed instantly by the holy rain. At least they would not have suffered. Setting his jaw, Sephiroth drew Masamune and stumbled to his feet.

“If that is so, then this world has no further need of me.”

Abruptly the laughter stopped.

“ _ **No. What are you doing? Stop! STOP! You are nothing without us! STOP!!!**_ ”

The blade seemed hurt and confused that he would turn her on himself. She was too long, but it must be done. One hand on the flat of her blade, the other gripping the unsharpened length just above the pommel, he shoved.

“ _ **NO!!!!**_ ”

Zirconiade’s sword finally penetrated the thick jelly of Jenova’s skin, the human shape that she had held abruptly collapsing and cascading over the remaining fragments of the Shinra building like spilled water. The putrid liquid of her body washed over the slums in a tidal wave of noxious green. If he were honest, Sephiroth didn’t mind it as the goo rolled over him. It offered a brief respite from the burn of the holy rain. Almost at once, the liquid swirling around his ankles began to bubble, steam rising up as Aeris’ rain poured down, dissolving Jenova’s cells.

Jenova’s screams echoed inside and out, but Sephiroth barely heard them. Was this what it felt like to be at the other end of Masamune? Had she not been sticking out of his middle he might not have known he’d been stabbed. The cut had been clean, smooth, his blood trailing down her blade toward the grip. Funny, he barely felt a thing, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to breath. He also felt distinctly light-headed. Gravity seemed to have increased tenfold and he sank to his knees.

Around him, the Deepground soldiers were shaking off their trance. Purged of Jenova’s control, they splashed heedless through in the sea-green puddles to support the combined Shinra and Avalanche army. To them, the rain had been cleansing, but to Sephiroth, the drops were like acid, stinging and burning wherever they fell.

‘ _It’s not supposed to be nice,_ ’ the Professor’s voice echoed in his memory. ‘ _It’s medicine. If it stings, you know it’s working._ ’

He laughed despite himself, but wound up coughing. More blood spattered the damp ground.

“ _SEPHIROTH!_ ”

The world had taken on a decided tilt. Sephiroth blinked deliberately as Vincent ran toward him at a forty-five degree angle.

“Sephiroth!” Vincent gasped, dropping to his knees and clamping a hand on each shoulder. “Sephiroth what the hell were you thinking?”

“I had to kill her,” he replied, sounding drunk in his own ears. “As long as I live...so does she…”

“Sephiroth, no…” Vincent pleaded, eyes welling up. How strange. Why should he be so upset about this? Vincent had no responsibility toward him, no blood ties. Carefully, he gathered Sephiroth into his arms, mindful of the blade still sticking out of his middle.

“I promised your mother,” he said, voice constricted. “I _promised..._ ”

Sephiroth’s hand felt as if it were made of wood as he lifted it to clumsily pat Vincent’s shoulder. Suddenly exhausted, he let the other man take his weight, resting his head on his shoulder.

“Not your fault…” He managed, feeling blood surge up his throat to trickle from the corner of his mouth. “She has to die…”

“...but you don’t.”

Distantly, Sephiroth felt Masamune eased out of him, the sudden rush of pain making him gasp. Without the blade to staunch the wound, blood cascaded down his legs. The pain made him pant, his burning lungs heaving but drawing no air. The rain continued to fall, stinging his eyes, burning his skin.

“Hold on…” Vincent told him, no more than a shadow hanging between him and the rainclouds. His silhouette spread, expanding, blotting out all light until everything went dark.


	60. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is emergency field medicine, Sephiroth makes a hard choice, and Zack and Aeris make the best of a bad situation.

It wasn’t like waking up, not exactly. It reminded him of the many times he’d hovered just beneath the surface of consciousness, aware of the pain, aware of the damage, but too tired and and defeated to deal with it, and therefore let the anesthesia overpower him. Sometimes it was just better not to know. Except this wasn’t drug stupor. It didn’t feel the same. He still felt unimaginably tired; at once heavy with exhaustion, yet feather light, as if he no longer dwelled in his body. It took a moment for him to realize that was exactly what the problem was.

He had no body, no form, not that he could see. On every side was nothing, not darkness, not light, but void. Emptiness. Nothing. No, wait. There was sound. It almost sounded as if someone was singing, soft and sweet and sad.

‘ _If I could save time in a bottle  
The first thing that I'd like to do  
Is to save every day till eternity passes away  
Just to spend them with you_’

Sephiroth froze. He knew that tune. He knew those lyrics. Rather, he recognized the song as a whole. He had heard it all his life, here and there, when he was frightened and alone as a child.

‘ _If I could make days last forever  
If words could make wishes come true  
I'd save every day like a treasure and then  
Again, I would spend them with you_’

The dreams had never completely stopped. There had been times when the lullaby had played in his dreams in Wutai, and a few half-remembered snatches beyond that. The voice and the melody had haunted him like the ghost of a beloved parent.

Beloved parent.

Oh gods. Could it be? Had it truly been her all this time?

‘ _But there never seems to be enough time  
To do the things you want to do, once you find them  
I've looked around enough to know  
That you're the one I want to go through time with_’

The nothing blurred then cleared, the many half-figures of mist and shadow solidifying into something almost corporeal. He knew that face. In the photograph it had been rendered in only black and white, but though the colors were faded, he could see that what Vincent had said was true: her skin was fair, but not as pale as the Turk’s, her hair dark brown, and her eyes a soft gray. The same crystal earrings hung from her ears, the same strand of pearls ringed her neck, and the sad tatters of a yellow ribbon wound around what was left of her ponytail.

‘ _...Mom?_ ’ The word fell out without thought. Sephiroth was rewarded as she smiled and drew her to him, folding her arms around him.

‘ _My baby…_ ’ she murmured, hugging him close. ‘ _Oh sweetheart I’m so sorry._ ’

Sephiroth could not respond right away, his throat completely blocked by a hopeless knot of emotions long held. He had never known her face, but he knew _this_. He had been afraid it had been Jenova, but he knew now that it was his mother- his human mother- who had sung to him in his dreams. Now she was here. Nothing need ever separate them again.

‘ _If I had a box just for wishes  
And dreams that had never come true  
The box would be empty, except for the memory of how  
They were answered by you_’

Sephiroth just held on, face hidden in her shoulder, her hand gently stroking his hair. So many times he had dreamed this, so many times, and now it was finally real.

‘ _But there never seems to be enough time  
To do the things you want to do, once you find them  
I've looked around enough to know  
That you're the one I want to go through time with_’

He expected there to be more, but the last notes of his mother’s song trailed off into wordless humming until the melody was resolved. Sephiroth held on for a moment longer before pulling back to look at her. It was a little strange to look into her face, her features exactly as they had been in the photograph. He had been born almost two months early, and she had been pregnant when the picture was taken. She would have only lived another five or six months before his birth had killed her.

Wait a minute.

‘ _Are we dead?_ ’ he asked her.

His mother shrugged. ‘ _Yes and no? We’re not alive, but because of the Jenova in our bodies, we’ll never be able to join the Lifestream. I guess the good news is we won’t be converted to fuel inside a makou reactor._ ’

‘ _So...we’re stuck here?_ ’ Wherever ‘here’ was. It didn’t seem to be much of anywhere.

‘ _Well, I am,_ ’ she said, regret tinting her words, ‘ _but you don’t have to stay here._ ’

Sephiroth blinked. ‘ _I don’t?_ ’

‘ _No, sweetheart,_ ’ she told him with a sad smile. ‘ _Look._ ’

At her indication, he turned to look over his shoulder. As if from a great distance, through a thick fog, he could see the battle for Midgar still raging. Half the Plate had come down, the other half still being held up by...he didn’t even know what. It was too vague to make out. At the center of all the chaos, Vincent knelt over what looked like a melted statue. With hand and claw he pumped the statue’s chest, evidently performing CPR. Sephiroth could not hear the noise of the battle, the clash of weapons, or even Jenova’s screams, but he could hear Vincent grunting through clenched teeth:

“Come on son, come on. Come back. It’s not your time yet. Wake up. Come on...”

‘ _You don’t have to be trapped here,_ ’ his mother said, words urging escape, but her tone longing to keep him with her. ‘ _There’s still time. You could go back..._ ’

For what felt like a long time, Sephiroth watched. It was as if Vincent were desperately trying to revive someone else, someone he didn’t know. He didn’t know Vincent; the Turk barely knew him. And yet...

‘ _He called me ‘son’,_ ’ Sephiroth observed. Turning to his mother, he asked: ‘ _Am I?_ ’

Her expression was sad and Sephiroth worried for a moment that he had offended her. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘ _No. No, he’s not your father. Vincent and I...we were very close, but not like that. He was a big brother to me. I loved him dearly, but I could never love him like that. His father was my mentor, and I’d be lying if I told you that Vincent’s role as a Turk didn’t frighten me a little._ ’ Giving a heavy sigh, she took his hands. ‘ _I saw what happened between you and your father. I saw what he did to you, and how Jenova ate away at his mind. I’m so sorry, Sephiroth. I wish with all my heart I could have done something..._ ’

‘ _It’s not your fault, mom,_ ’ he assured her, pulling her into a hug.

‘ _Yes it is,_ ’ she insisted. ‘ _There are so many things I would have done differently had I known. I would have fought harder for a surgical birth, or refused to take part in the project at all, but you know the one thing I wouldn’t change?_ ’

Sephiroth looked down at her, did not shy away as she reached and gently smoothed his bangs from his eyes and cupped his cheek with one small hand.

‘ _I was never sorry I had you._ ’

Sephiroth swallowed hard, but it did him no good. Tears were welling up despite his best efforts.

‘ _I love you, mom,_ ’ he husked, hugging her again and letting the tears fall.

‘ _I love you too, Sephiroth,_ ’ she whispered. ‘ _More than you’ll ever know._ ’

 

\--

 

“KIDS! _KIDS!!_ ” Azul yelled, climbing over the wreckage. He had felt the moment the microchip had powered down, and had not wasted any time abandoning the small communications tent the Turks had set up, and racing full tilt for Midgar. There was only the slightest hesitation as he darted through the gap in the wall, the barest flinch as he braced for an electrical shock and pain that never came. It made him smile, gave him hope that kids were alright. Then the rain had started and his hopes had sunk along with the partially-collapsed Plate. The rain and makou had risen more than knee-deep in some places in the slums. Above, only the sad remains of buildings, shops, and vehicles were left. The entire city was a ruin, but amazingly, it looked as if most everyone had survived. Only Deepground uniforms lay with melting bodies still inside them, the tissue washing away as if the corpses had been made of sand, and not flesh and blood.

“ _ROSSO!_ ” he screamed. “ _WEISS! NERO! KIDS, ANSWER ME!!!_ ”

A low sob echoed off the broken concrete. It was not even remotely a word, but he recognized the voice.

“WEISS!” he shouted, unable to help the note of joy in his tone. “WEISS WHERE ARE YOU?”

The cry came again, the sound ragged and pained. Weiss was injured, of that he had no doubt. Azul jumped and spun around at the hollow sound of a fist against metal. A hand- or what was left of one- waved from beneath the impromptu awning of a piece of badly bent metal. It might have once been part of somebody’s roof, or perhaps a panel of fencing, but it provided at least the suggestion of cover from the downpour.

“...Azul…” the word was soft and gargled, though the voice was familiar.

“Weiss!” Without further thought, Azul tore at the pile of debris, tossing aside tangles of rebar and chunks of cement as if they were toys. Behind the rubbish, huddled as far back beneath the overhang as he could manage, lay Weiss. Azul swallowed back the sudden surge of acid as his stomach lurched.

Half his face was gone- not simply disfigured by a burn or blunt weapon but literally _gone_. The right side of his face and head ran with black blood and searing rain water, the flesh having turned black and oozing clean off his skull, leaving raw muscle and even bone exposed. His arms and chest were not any better, and the sodden fabric of his white trousers was steeped in black.

“Oh gods, son…” Azul muttered, tearing off his scarf and wrapping the boy in it. “Weiss I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I let this happen. I wanted to come back, please believe me, but I couldn’t protect you the way I was… The microchip…”

Beneath the thick woolen folds of the scarf Weiss shuddered and gagged. Both his eyes were still intact if ringed by horrible black-brown circles. Azul did his best to block him from the rain, to protect him from the crystalline drops that had cured him, but would surely kill Weiss if he didn’t get him to shelter and a level three Cure spell in the next five minutes. Crouched on one knee, Azul started as Weiss leaned forward and clutched his shirt with flayed fingers, resting the less damaged side of his face against his chest. Automatically, Azul put his arms around him.

“Where did you learn that?” he mused, surprised. “What did you get up to while I was gone?”

“Rosso…” Weiss managed, the word hoarse and wet due to too many teeth being exposed. “My fault… They hurt…”

“Shh,” Azul soothed, lifting him into his arms and doing his best to shelter him with his body. “We’ll find her. We’ll fix this. It’ll be alright. You know where she is?”

Weiss pointed up with one finger, Azul following with his eyes to look at the remains of the Plate.

“Okay, we’ll look for her up there.”

 _How_ they were going to look for her, he had no idea. Azul had no desire to prolong Weiss’ suffering, but he’d be damned if he left any of his kids on the battlefield.

“What about Nero?” he asked, picking his way around the mounds of wreckage and disintegrating bodies. “Where’s he?”

In answer, Weiss let out a ragged sob and dissolved into tears. Azul froze, Weiss’ sudden outburst of emotion so unexpected that it shocked him into stillness. Weiss had never cried, none of them had, not even as children. Before he’d come, none of the kids had had any concept of sympathy, empathy, or any sort of affection at all. They had been wild little animals, but somewhere along the line, they’d learned to feel. Part of that had been his fault, and Azul was proud that he’d managed to sneak what tenderness he could beneath the Restrictors’ notice. Someone, however, had taught them even more, and had probably been killed for it. Weiss might not have always been kind to his younger brother, but he had never allowed anyone else to pick on him. If Weiss were crying, that could mean only one thing:

“He’s dead, then,” Azul murmured, carefully hugging Weiss close. “Weiss, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d a’ been there…”

Weiss said nothing, just held on, cowering beneath the scarf, trying to hide beneath Azul’s broad shoulders from the rain. A shadow passed over them, blotting out the sun that streamed through the still dripping rainclouds, causing both of them to look up. The creature that had held Jenova in place loomed above them, eyes glowing gold. It was not merely black, the shadows of its body were so deep that they gave the impression of being a void in space rather than the mass of a physical creature.

Taking a step back, Azul tightened his hold on Weiss protectively, triggering a whimper of protest from the boy in his arms. Leaping down from the crooked ledge of the fallen Plate, the shadow tore in mid-air, leaving more than half of itself behind. It pooled in a curtain of darkness where it landed, rising into something much smaller and more man-shaped. Azul blinked, noting that the creature was now considerably shorter than he was. The shadows rippled and contracted, sliding away into a familiar shape.

“Nero!” Azul exclaimed, thunderstruck. In his arms, Weiss stretched, trying to see without leaving the shelter of the scarf.

Nero stood before them, unharmed and whole and very much alive. Stranger still, he was not wearing his mask, yet he seemed to be breathing just fine. His old makou suit was gone, the black acrylic and blue tubing replaced by a fabric darker than night, than the void, highlighted in an indigo so deep that it was difficult to detect unless the light struck it a certain way. In the center of his chest lay a raw crystal of the same color. In his arms he carried a figure nearly as big as he was, swathed in shadow so dark it looked as if a hole had been cut out of reality.

“Nero!” Weiss exclaimed, wiggling free of Azul’s arms and collapsing to the broken pavement. He tried to stand, but only made it as far as hands and knees, his fingers rapidly oxidizing and dissolving in the ankle-deep water. Perhaps with no skin left, he did not feel the pain, for tried to crawl towards Nero.

“No don’t!” Nero said, crouching down and wrapping one arm around his brother. The shadows flowed from his arm in a velvet curtain, draping Weiss’s body like a cloak.

“How…?” Weiss began, but too much of his jaw and cheek were gone for him to continue. Nero drew the shadows up over his head like a hood.

“It’s okay,” Nero assured him. “This’ll keep the rain off for now.” Craning his head to look up into the crystalline downpour, he shouted a single word into the sky:

“ _MOM!!!_ ”

Something like a bird, or perhaps a fish swooped low over the wreckage. Azul gaped as she descended, and stood before them, balanced on the long coil of her tail. She was not large, indeed she was shorter than Nero, but power wafted from her like a cool breeze. A mantle of stars trailed behind her, their number seemingly in the thousands. Turning, she raised her arms, spreading them wide. The stars gently descended until they touched the ground. Their light flared a brilliant gold and then vanished, leaving a bewildered person standing in its place.

Turning to face the Tsviets again, her brilliance wavered, her majesty flickered and abruptly evaporated, a woman in a plain gray uniform collapsing to her knees.

“...Argento?” Azul asked, bewildered. The weaponsmith shook herself and got to her feet, sweeping her hair out of her face with one hand. Azul blinked. Her eyepatch was gone. The socket of her right eye glowed briefly blue-white, faded to red, but when she blinked, a pair of plain gray human eyes looked back at him.

“What the…?” he trailed off. There were so many questions, but Rosso and Nero were more important.

“Oh my son,” she said softly, coming over to caress what was left of Weiss’ face. “I would that I could spare you this pain…”

“Mom, can you fix them?” Nero asked.

“Perhaps,” she said, looking over Weiss and the shadow bundle that was Rosso. “If they are to live, they must have a guardian as you and I do. They must have materia.”

“Don’t look at me,” Azul said, utterly lost.

“Then we must get them into makou.”

“Okay,” Azul agreed, scooping up Weiss and Rosso each in an arm. The shadow blankets Nero had wrapped them in were soft as silk but cold as space. Gooseflesh rippled across his skin, but he ignored it. “Where to?”

 

\---

 

“ _AERIS!_ ” 

Aeris jumped, shaking off the last of her trance. There had been urgency, not anger in Vincent’s voice, and she thought she knew why. Leaving Cloud and Tifa, she splashed over, running as well as she could through the ankle-deep water to the bit of elevated ground that Sephiroth lay on. Every raindrop made a stain on his fair skin, leaving muddy brown splotches across his chest and face. Unable to cope with healing so much damage so quickly, his flesh was rapidly dissolving into muddy sludge.

“I don’t understand…” she said softly. “Holy was supposed to wash away all traces of Jenova…”

“It is,” Vincent muttered, extending one wing and holding it flat above the boy, sheltering him from any further damage. “But he was born carrying Jenova’s cells. In order to put an end to the creature…” He swallowed hard on the knot in his throat, the words coming out flat and misshapen. “...he put an end to himself.”

“There may still be time,” Aeris told him. Dropping to her knees, she rapidly went over Sephiroth’s inert body. His rapidly dissolving flesh made it impossible to check for a pulse or a heartbeat, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Biting her lip, she looked up at Vincent.

“I have an idea,” he told her, gesturing to the glow in his own breast. Of course! Yanking the White Materia from the cord around her neck, she held it out to him.

“I’ll cut, you put it in,” he instructed.

“Wait, what?”

Before she could make any further remarks, Vincent extended a claw and sliced into the flesh of Sephiroth’s chest. He dug deep, and allowed himself a small sigh of relief as blood surged up; he’d punctured the Sephiroth’s still-beating heart.

“Hurry,” he said, holding the edges of the wound open. Shaking off her look of horror, Aeris leaned forward and pressed the White Materia inside. At once she cast her strongest spell, crystalline feathers floating down from above. Sephiroth, however, did not move.

“Come on son, come on,” Vincent said, pumping Sephiroth’s chest they way Zack had done to him so many times. “Come back. It’s not your time yet. Wake up. Come on...”

Watching Vincent try to press breath back into Sephiroth’s lungs, Aeris noticed another familiar face- or what was left of it.

_Colonel Rhapsodos…_

Automatically, she clutched at her throat, but her White materia was already gone, and the only materia Vincent carried was embedded in his chest.

“ _HEY!_ ” she screamed at top of her lungs. “ _HEY!!!_ ” The soldiers finishing off the Deepground mongrels that had not yet melted away paused and turned to look at her. “ _I NEED SUMMON MATERIA AND I NEED IT NOW!_ ”

They exchanged looks with each other and began rifling through their bracers and bangles, swords and rifles.

“It’s gotta be Summon, lady?” one of them asked her. “Green or yellow won’t do?”

“No, it’s got to be red!” she insisted, making a drape of her skirt and holding it out like an apron.

“Here!” a soldier shouted, hurrying forward and dropping a red stone into her skirt.

“I got one!” another shouted, hurrying over. More of them came running, red materia clutched in their hands. It wasn’t long before there were more than a dozen red spheres cradled in the hammock she’d made of her skirt. Awkwardly transferring both corners of fabric to her left hand, she rummaged among them with her right. All of them were different, some weak, some strong, but none of them called to her. There was one, one in particular that would do for him what Chaos had done for Vincent. Aeris closed her fingers around one of the stones and felt her eyes widen. Yes, this was the one.

Heedless to how much leg she was showing, Aeris gathered the fabric of her skirt around the extra materia into an impromptu bag. Kneeling down next to Colonel Rhapsodos she looked anxiously from his disintegrating body to the materia and back. Not knowing what else to do, she pushed the stone into the muddy flesh of his chest. Perhaps it was the magic, or maybe there was not enough left of his tissue to resist, but the materia easily slid through his ribs and into his chest cavity. At once she cast her strongest healing spell, but nothing happened.

“I got this, ma’am,” one of the soldiers told her. Gently elbowing around her, he began pumping what was left of Genesis’ chest. Although he wore the same helmet with a full-face visor as the other soldiers, Aeris thought she recognized him as one of Zack’s friends: a man named Kunsel.

 _Lord Alexander,_ Aeris prayed, watching. _Accept this warrior’s sacrifice. Preserve his spirit, heal his body that he may again lift his sword in your service._

 _His flesh is corrupt,_ came the unexpected reply. _Before he can be knighted, he must be cleansed._

_How?_

It was as if invisible hands had turned her head. Perhaps a hundred yards off was a crater in the sidewalk made by the falling debris of the Plate. The Lifestream had surged up from deep underground once Jenova had fallen, as if removing her had unclogged some geological pipe through which the makou had been trying to flow. Pools of it had collected in potholes and low places in the street. The crater was easily twice as long as Sephiroth was tall, and several feet deep. Filled with makou, it made a small swimming pool in the middle of the road.

“Over there!” she shouted, pointing at the makou pool. “We need to get them into makou!”

“Pick him up,” Vincent ordered, hefting Sephiroth in his arms. Although remaining in his Chaos form would have made lifting Sephiroth easier, his wings had folded back into his cloak, Vincent’s body shrinking back to its familiar, lanky proportions. Aeris blanched as melted tissue sloughed off of Sephiroth's body at the movement. Kunsel visibly choked back his own gag reflex but crouched down and carefully maneuvered Genesis into his arms.

“Nrg…” he grunted. “He’s too heavy!”

“I’ll help,” Cloud offered, coming over.

“Me too,” Tifa added.

It took all three of them to lift Genesis and carry him after Vincent. Aeris watched, Cure materia in hand, anxious.

Vincent carried Sephiroth over to the crater. Wading into it, he carefully lowered Sephiroth into the brilliant sea-green liquid. Cloud, Tifa, and Kunsel followed, easing Genesis into the makou as well.

“Get his clothes off!” Vincent barked. Tifa and the boys exchanged bewildered glances.

“More surface area means more healing,” he snapped. “ _Do it!_ ”

Cloud and Kunsel did as they were told, gingerly stripping Genesis out of his jacket and uniform. Feeling her cheeks burn, Aeris hurriedly turned her back, Tifa coming up to join her. A ragged gasp, however, made them turn around again.

“He’s okay!” Cloud exclaimed. The blonde boy crouched in the makou, cradling Genesis’ head. “Well, sort of.”

Genesis sounded as if he were trying to scream, but did not possess the strength to do it properly. Around him, the makou bubbled and boiled, the decayed flesh dissolving into nothing. Abruptly he jerked upright, gasping for breath. A muddy outline of oxidized Jenova cells floated behind him in the makou. He flailed blindly, latching onto Kunsel, who caught him and held him.

“It’s okay, I got you Sir,” Kunsel said, attempting to reassure. Everyone jumped as a pair of falcon’s wings burst from Genesis’ back, the feathers the same brassy red as his hair. He held on for a minute more before the wings evaporated in a flurry of loose feathers and he collapsed backwards onto Cloud.

“I got him!” Cloud announced, just barely managing to catch instead of get squished by his commanding officer.

It was as if the Healing Rain had never touched him. Beneath the makou, Genesis’ skin was intact and unblemished. Even the old wound in his shoulder had healed, the injury marked by a scar that looked as if it were months old, rather than minutes.

Kunsel held Genesis’ ubiquitous red jacket in place to allow his commander some modesty while Cloud held his head steady just under the surface. Sephiroth, however, still drifted motionless in Vincent’s arms. 

“I don’t get it,” Tifa mused. “What’s taking him so long?”

“He tried to gut himself,” Vincent answered softly, not looking up from Sephiroth’s melted face. “Genesis wasn’t wounded, he was just unconscious.”

“Mr. Valentine,” Tifa began. “Your arm…”

At first Aeris thought Tifa meant Vincent’s left arm; the skin inky black, each finger tipped with a sharp talon instead of a nail. After a moment, however, she realized Tifa was talking about his right arm. The bare skin of his forearm and fingers was blistering red where the light makou touched it.

“It’s fine,” Vincent said dismissively.

“I can take over?” Tifa offered.

“Hold his coat if you like.”

Although her cheeks flushed crimson, Tifa waded into the makou and took Sephiroth’s leather jacket from where Vincent had had it awkwardly pinched between his side and elbow. It wasn’t much, but at least she was helping. Aeris wished she could do something more.

“Room for two more in there?” a deep voice called out. Everyone looked up.

“Mr. Azul!” Aeris exclaimed, hurrying to meet him. He was not alone. In his great arms he carried two black bundles. A woman in a gray uniform and what looked like a living shadow followed close behind. As soon as it saw her, however, the shadow vanished as if he had never been. Aeris shook her head, wondering if she had imagined him, when the woman spoke.

“My children need help,” the woman said. “Without a guardian they will surely perish.”

“Here,” Aeris said, holding out her skirt. “Take whatever you need.”

The woman stepped forward, closed her eyes, and plunged her hands in among the pile of red stones. After a moment, she withdrew her hands, a materia in each one.

“Thank you, child,” the woman told her. “May the Cetra find new life through you.”

“May… _what?_ ” Aeris gaped, watching bewildered as the woman turned to the black shapes in Azul’s arms. She pulled the shadows away as if they were blankets, and Aeris clapped both hands over her mouth, the materia spilling from her skirt into the shallow water covering the street. 

Colonel Rhapsodos and General Sephiroth had been bad enough, but there was hardly anything left of the people in Azul’s arms. It was difficult to even tell if they were male or female; their clothing looked as if it was the only thing holding them together. She watched, transfixed, as the woman gently pushed a materia into the chests of each of the bodies. One of them let out a weak, wet scream just as Colonel Rhapsodos had, the other, strangely, began to smoke.

“Get my son into makou,” the woman commanded. “Leave me our daughter.”

Nodding, Azul handed one of the melted bodies to her. Far too big to fit in the pool himself, he carefully lowered his son into the makou with one enormous hand. Aeris turned away as Azul began to strip away the boy’s ruined clothing. His daughter’s piercing scream soon arrested all her attention.

Aeris shrieked herself as the girl’s ruined body burst into flames. The woman- her mother, Azul’s wife- however, seemed unconcerned. She held the burning body, immune to the heat, her uniform not even scorched. Aeris wracked her brain, trying to remember which summons were fire-based. There was Ifrit, Kujata, and…

_Phoenix..._

The scream trailed off as the flames burnt low, smouldering into nothing. Aeris blinked. A woman with violently red hair lay in Azul’s wife’s arms, completely naked. Recognition dawned and Aeris realized it was Rosso, the same woman who had attacked them at Cleo’s bar months ago.

“Aeris.”

Starting slightly at the sound of her own name, Aeris turned to see Vincent holding out his cloak.

“Give this to her.”

Obediently, Aeris took the cloak and draped it over Rosso’s bare shoulders.

“Thank you, Cetra’s Daughter,” the woman in gray told her. “Will you help me?”

“Sure,” Aeris agreed, assisting her in lifting Rosso and half-dragging, half-carrying her to the makou pool. “Will she be okay?”

“She will live if she wants to,” Rosso’s mother said, lowering her daughter into the sea-green liquid. “First and foremost, my daughter is a survivor. She will live a long and full life. She will know what it is to be free.”

As if on cue, Rosso inhaled sharply, a pair of fiery wings bursting from her back. They vanished almost at once, disappearing in a shower of red and gold embers.

“...Argento?” she asked, groggily.

“Rest, child,” Argento said softly, stroking her hair. “It is over.”

“Weiss…” she rasped. Reaching for the muddy body next to her, she brushed his flayed fingertips with her own. This triggered a deep breath and coughing from the melting corpse. Aeris started as he sat bolt upright, the muck sliding away to reveal unblemished skin, brilliant blue eyes, and a wild shock of white hair. A pair of dragonfly wings extended from his shoulders. They flitted fitfully once, twice, before vanishing as he collapsed senseless back into Azul’s arms. 

Everyone looked expectantly at Sephiroth, but he just lay there, his ruined body slowly oxidizing black as more and more of him melted away. Holy was not a summon per se, it was not the embodiment of a Guardian Spirit like Shiva or Titan. It was still a Force of Nature, but it wasn’t quite the same. Perhaps it was not enough? At once Aeris dropped to her knees, casting about frantically for the materia she had dropped. Perhaps Odin would work? Not Hades, that was a terrible idea. One of the Bahamut materia might do, or maybe Leviathan since Sephiroth had spent so much time overseas…

She had recovered every materia, but none of them seemed right. The three Bahamut materia cried out to her, but not for Sephiroth. In her mind they almost sounded like baby birds. Carefully setting them aside, another sound caught her attention. She recognized the deep, gravelly tone as belonging to Vincent, but his lips were not moving. This was not the first time she’d overheard the people in his head- it had happened in the church, and again at Cleo’s bar, but this time was a little different. This time, the only voice she heard was his.

 _Maybe it’s selfish of me to want to keep you here,_ he murmured inside his own head. _I promised your mother I’d look out for you, but I’ve failed. I tried to atone for my role in things, but I only made it worse. Perhaps it was vain of me to think I could change anything. Maybe this is the only way you’ll truly be free. If you want to stay with her...I understand. You can let go. It’s alright..._

Aeris swallowed hard, feeling tears stinging her eyes as Vincent gathered what was left of Sephiroth’s body into a hug. Maybe it was just muck from Sephiroth’s disintegrating hair, but she thought she saw a dirty gray tear slide down Vincent’s pale cheek.

_...I won’t let you fall._

She felt her own tears spill over as Sephiroth slumped against Vincent, his melting flesh running through Vincent’s fingers like wet clay. She hadn’t been imagining it. Discolored streaks of salt water ran from Vincent’s red eyes as he tried desperately to hold what was left of Sephiroth’s body together. Kunsel removed his helmet and bowed his head. Cloud just stared, his own eyes streaming. Hesitantly, Tifa rested a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, but he seemed not to notice.

Aeris blinked as a flicker of light caught her eye. Her heart sank even further as thoughts of pyreflies filled her head. But no, this light was green-white, not gold. It sparkled again, a glitter of magic, a small white star twinkling beneath the decaying remains of Sephiroth’s mortal shell.

Everyone started as the corpse convulsed in Vincent’s arms. Vincent held on as the last remnants of Jenova-ridden flesh melted away, vaporized by light that was now so bright it was difficult to look at. Through slitted eyes, Aeris squinted at the brilliant silhouette that Sephiroth had become. White wings exploded from his back in a shower of stardust and feathers, his long silver-white hair falling between them. Like Genesis, he seemed no worse for the wear; the only indication of his misadventure marked by a pair of scars: one through his middle, courtesy of Masamune, and the other over his heart where she and Vincent had implanted the White materia.

She watched, mesmerized, as his wings drifted away like snow, the air sparkling briefly as they dissolved. No sooner had they vanished than Sephiroth collapsed against Vincent, out cold. Dirty tears flowed down the Turk’s face, but beneath them, he was smiling. This time, it didn’t look as if it hurt.

“Tell Zack,” he told her, voice rough from trying to keep his words steady. “Tell him we survived. Tell him it’s over.”

 

\--

 

Zack braced himself as Zircon popped Jenova like a balloon, the vast jello of her body abruptly collapsing and washing over everything in a noxious green tidal wave. Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and held tight to his Buster sword as the wave swept over his head. Mercifully, it didn’t last long, and the Jenova cells began to dissolve as soon as they touched the holy water of Aeris’ Healing Rain. Still, the goop made wading along the broken streets of the slums more challenging, the water and makou almost knee-deep in some places.

What civilians and rookies didn’t realize was how much of combat was cleaning up. Now that the immediate threat was gone, they could focus on the far less lethal, but no less urgent matters of what to do about the fallen Plate, the displaced civilians, and anything else that needed to be done. With Jenova gone, the Deepground mongrels dead, and the human soldiers free, they could focus more on actual rescue and less on combat. With a sigh, Zack leaned on his sword, suddenly feeling the strain of fighting non-stop for hours on end. Damn, he was tired.

“ _ZACK!_ ”

He straightened stiffly, every muscle protesting loudly. It hurt to turn his head, to unclench his hands and let the Buster sword fall. As he held out his arms to catch her up and hug her close, it all seemed to melt away. He wanted to laugh, to speak her name, but her lips were on his and...it could wait. He tried to lean back, to turn his head for a better angle, but wound up overbalancing, sending both of them splashing into the knee-deep makou.

Aeris broke off to let out an abbreviated shriek as they went down, the makou briefly washing over their heads. Laughing, Zack hugged her close.

“Aeris!” he gasped, somewhere between joy and tears, and kissed her again. “Gods, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You too,” she replied between kisses. Her breath caught as his lips touched the side of her neck, the spot where her ear and jaw met, her cheeks, chin, and anywhere else he could reach. Laughing, she caught his face in both hands and kissed him good. When they came up for air, both of them were panting.

“Now where was that guy the other night?” she teased quietly. “What happened to Mr. Chivalry?”

“Mr. Chivalry is not here right now,” Zack replied, voice somewhat muffled since he’d hidden his face in her neck. “Please leave a message.”

Aeris giggled, his nose tickling her throat. “I thought you wanted to do things properly?”

Zack straightened at that and for a long moment just looked at her, drinking in the sight of her wild hair, wet and dirty dress, and the rising bruises on her skin where she hadn’t been quick enough to get out of the way. He swallowed hard, and she wondered if he was going to cry?

“Zack?” she asked, reaching to cup his cheek.

“You know what?” he began, hooking his hand on her wrist. “Fuck tradition. Aeris, will you marry me?”

Although she’d been warned this moment was coming, she hadn’t expected it to come _now_. She blinked, but felt a smile forming already, the surprise rapidly melting into joy.

“Yes!” she said, throwing her arms around him. His heart beat heavily in his chest as he hugged her close, his arms trembling around her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said into her shoulder. “I’m just happy.”

Smiling, she pressed her cheek against his and stroked his hair. Sitting astride his lap like this, it was easy enough to tell that he was, indeed, happy. It could also just be the combined adrenaline high of winning the battle and then getting engaged. She was more than a little giddy herself. Jenova was gone, everyone was alright, and they were going to be married. There were plenty of reasons to be happy.

Overhead, the rain was slowing, the drops falling fine and light. It hardly mattered, they were both already soaked. Now that the battle was over, the city was strangely quiet and birdsong drifted over the slums for the first time in many years

“You wouldn’t let me see you off,” she began lowly. “...can I give you a proper welcome home?”

She could feel the heat burning in his cheeks before he leaned back to look at her, expression a mix of surprise and...something else. Aeris felt her own face grow warm and she smiled sheepishly, half expecting him to laugh and dismiss her tease. 

Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted her face up and leaned in. He had never kissed her like _that_ before. Gathering her in his arms, he got his feet under him and stood. Aeris held on, the sudden weight of gravity a sharp contrast to the buoyancy of the makou. 

“Yeah,” he murmured into her ear. “You can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Time in a Bottle” - Jim Croche, 1973  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dO1rMeYnOmM
> 
> This was a nod to a fanmix made for a LiveJournal roleplay called “Shinra: Year Twenty-Five”.  
> Each character- Hojo, Vincent, Sephiroth, Zack, etc- had a contemporary song and “Time in a Bottle” was Lucrecia’s. It’s been my theme for her ever since.


	61. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Ending

Sephiroth had not felt this bad since he was six years old. Frost cough, Del Sol Fever, Chocobo Pox, and half a dozen other childhood illnesses had laid him flat for almost a month. At the time, Jenova had protected him, but the parasite was gone now. He should know. He’d dealt the final blow himself. Which did not explain why he felt like a Behemoth’s chew toy. This much pain meant that he was still alive, and he really ought to be dead. Except, apparently, he wasn’t.

Dragging his eyes open only added to the pain, the bright glare of sunlight stabbing his eyes like a dagger. Squinting, he tried to focus on the shadow that had put itself between him and the sun. For a brief moment he thought it might be the Professor looming over him. No, the hair was not nearly neat enough. Perhaps it was Vincent? It reached a hand toward him; delicate fingers roughened by thick callouses brushed his temple as they smoothed his bangs out of his eyes.

“...Elfe?”

Out of all the faces he had expected to see looking down at him, hers had not been one of them. Used to waking up to techs, nurses, and researchers, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d awoken to see someone who actually cared about him as more than just a broken weapon. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could see her smile, the last wisps of worry evaporating in a relieved sigh.

“Hey,” she told him. “Welcome back.”

He opened his mouth, but could not decide what to ask first.

“We won,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “Everybody’s fine. Vincent, Genesis, Zack, Aeris, your brothers, everyone.”

Closing his eyes, Sephiroth allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. Good. Everyone was safe. Jenova was gone. That meant he could lie here for a little while longer. Every muscle fibre slack with exhaustion, he wasn’t sure he could get up even if he tried.

“How bad?” his voice came out weak and scratchy. Elfe smiled and shook her head.

“Well, the Plate came down, but not all at once. It’s kind of...at an angle now. Civilian casualties were minimal thanks to Aeris and the Summons.”

Sephiroth nodded, enjoying the sound of her voice as she went on.

“We did take some losses, but there were more wounded than dead. It could have been a lot worse. Even Deepground didn’t fare too badly. We’re still taking a headcount, but most of their human troops are still alive and Jenova-free.”

“And everyone else is okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she smiled, squeezing his hand. “Everyone’s okay. Including you.”

Leaning, she touched her lips to his forehead and then rested her own forehead against his, her wrapped strand of hair brushing against the side of his head. Sephiroth let go of her hands, tracing up her arms to drape his own around her neck. He smiled as she let out a deep breath through her nose, her closed lips curving up in a smile.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You too,” he murmured, tugging her down until their lips met. The kiss was softer, more quiet than the one following their duel, but every bit as sweet. When their lips parted, Elfe laid her head on his shoulder. Sephiroth shifted so his hands rested on her back, his cheek against the top of her head.

“Still tired?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he mumbled into her hair, already half asleep.

“Take a nap, then,” she told him, arms snugging around him in a brief hug. “You’ve earned it. Rufus and I can call the shots till you’re better.”

“Rufus can do it his damn self,” he replied sleepily, locking his arms around her. “He’s president now. Let him give orders for a while.”

She giggled, her diaphragm bouncing against his torso as she laughed, her amusement ending in a sigh. “I guess I don’t have to tell you what it’s like running the show. Your men have all been amazing, by the way.”

“Our men,” Sephiroth reminded her.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “our men.”

Their men. Sephiroth sighed heavily, knowing this moment could not last forever. Eventually he would have to find the strength to get up, to take command, to help Rufus and Elfe bring order to the chaos they’d created. Of course he wanted to see Vincent again, and Genesis, and his brothers, Zack, Azul, and Cloud, and all his other friends. He wanted to see for himself that they were alright. Except right now, all he wanted to do was stay here, exactly as he was, with Elfe right beside him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m not ready for this to be over.”

Elfe lifted her head, confused. “For what to be over?”

“This,” he repeated, gesturing with one hand at the two of them. “Us. Together.”

Her smile was reminded him of his mother’s; a beautiful mix of happy and sad all at once.

“We’re both still here. We agreed we’d vanquish Jenova first, and we did. It’s not over, we haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“Haven’t we?” Sephiroth teased, and was rewarded as Elfe’s cheeks stained pink.

“No,” she smiled, and leaned to kiss him. “Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. 06/24/15 - 08/24/16
> 
> A year and two months ON THE DOT.
> 
> Guys I do not even.
> 
> This is probably one of the biggest personal projects I’ve ever taken on to date. I was not sure this thing would be finished, and I continue to be amazed by how well it’s been received. I had no idea it would snowball the way it did. I’m so glad that you’ve all enjoyed it. I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing it.
> 
> Giant shout-out to all my Betas, you know who you are. Also to the many, MANY people who allowed me to flail at them when I was stuck on a particular aspect of the fic. Special thanks to all the fandom old timers out there who inspired my heandcanons and let me play in their sandbox. I love you all so much. Thank you to all who left Likes, Kudos, and especially comments. You cannot imagine what that means to me. <3
> 
> This is the last of “Haunted House”, but there’s plenty to do in this universe. I plan to write more, but I won’t be adding any additional chapters to this volume.
> 
> Thank you all. It’s been a wonderful adventure. <3


End file.
